


until the stars evaporate

by cabinfever



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ignis makes Very Poor Decisions, M/M, Oracle Ignis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 164,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinfever/pseuds/cabinfever
Summary: At the sight of the light surrounding Titan, the covenant of meteorshards and stone shifts and burns in his chest, calling out for satisfaction. Ignis grimaces around the heat of it. “Noct,” he calls, and he reaches out slowly, half in a dream, reaching out, out, out to a king far away. “Noct, I need your hand.”Raised in the stifling safety of Insomnia, Ignis journeys into Lucis as the Oracle alongside his king. He'll do what it takes to stand by Noct's side, prophecies and gods be damned.





	1. shiva.

**Author's Note:**

> written for ignoct week day 5: oracle ignis.
> 
> title taken from my favorite ignoct song, "starlight" by starset.

The world falls apart when Ignis is ten.

It seems a simple enough visit at first. When the Lucians come to Fenestala Manor with their black capes and black cars and black hair, Ignis’s family welcomes them with open arms. His mother tends to the little prince, and she asks him and Luna to stay by his side and keep him company. Ignis likes the prince well enough.

And then the skies rain fire.

When General Glauca runs a sword through his mother’s chest and paints his brother with her blood, Ignis screams. 

Luna dashes to Ravus’s side, picking him up from the ground where he kneels. She wraps her arms around him, staring up at the helmeted, hellish spectre of General Glauca. The general’s sword is dripping with Queen Sylva’s blood.

“Ignis!” King Regis calls, and Ignis turns from his family to see the king of Lucis holding Prince Noctis, standing wreathed by flames and crystal magic. 

He’s holding out his hand.

Ignis looks back.

Luna meets his eyes from across the grass, lit by fire and searchlights. She’s sobbing; he can see it from here. But she is a princess, and she was raised to be brave. “Run!” she screams to him. She is holding their brother, and their mother is dead, and Ignis is the Oracle now.

“Ignis!” Noctis cries from King Regis’s arms.

Ravus and Luna are surrounded by the magitek soldiers. Men with guns yank them to their feet. They are covered in their mother’s blood. Ignis almost reaches out to them.

Almost.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, though he knows his siblings will not hear him.

Ignis takes Regis’s hand, and he runs.

 

\---

 

The Messengers leave Tenebrae behind, and they come to Lucis.

Behind the walls of Insomnia, it’s safe enough to be himself. The Oracle is a morale booster, they tell him. The young son of Tenebrae will let the Insomnians know that there’s still hope for the world outside, and that there is still a shred of divinity in their world. Ignis doesn’t mind when they parade him around. His mother always did tell him that the purpose of the Oracle was to be the light for the world in times of darkness.

Ignis doesn’t like to think about his mother that often.

The empire doesn’t technically know he’s here, but they suspect it. Information doesn’t often make it out of Insomnia and into Niflheim’s waiting grasp, but enough soldiers and dignitaries get captured that the rumors start to spread that the youngest of the Nox Fleurets yet lives. It’s not a secret, but it’s been ages since the outside world has caught a glimpse of their young Oracle.

The Lucians dress him up in black. Maybe it’s to further the illusion, or maybe it’s just to claim him for themselves, but they do it nonetheless. Black waistcoats and black slacks and black shoes become staples of his wardrobe; Ignis insists on at least wearing white shirts underneath them. Still, he chafes under the dark colors of the Lucians. They feel wrong on his skin, like his body knows that he should be in the white of his house. But he obliges the wishes of the people that saved him from certain imprisonment, and he wears the black.

When Gentiana visits, she sometimes brings him gifts from home. Sometimes, they’re sylleblossoms. Sometimes, it’s a bottle of the golden polish she uses on her nails. Sometimes, it’s one of his favorite books from his shelves in Fenestala Manor, or a bookmark with the Tenebraen crest. One day, she brings him a weapon.

His mother’s trident shimmers with bright silver and gold light, glowing before his eyes. Gentiana lets him reach out and touch it, and then she lets it dissolve into golden light, just like the magic of the kings, only more familiar. Ignis mourns its loss.

“Remember who you are,” she reminds him.

Ignis protests, “I’m trying.” How could he forget? His mother died to make him who he is. His sister and brother are captive because he is who he is.

Gentiana leans down and touches Ignis’s cheek. “You are the blood of the Oracle,” she murmurs. “Tenebrae has not forgotten its son.”

“I’ll come back,” Ignis insists. “I promise.”

Gentiana smiles, but her eyes are sad. “Child,” she tells him, “one day you will learn the weight of promises.”

 

\---

 

“Do you hate me?” Noctis asks.

It’s been exactly a year since they escaped Tenebrae. It’s past their bedtime, but neither of them quite care. They’re sitting side by side on a bench in the middle of one of the Citadel’s inner courtyards, staring upwards. The stars look different here than they did back home. Even now, after a year in Insomnia, the Citadel isn’t the home that Fenestala was.

Ignis looks away from the stars and at the prince. His companion’s still staring at the sky, but he’s frowning in a way that makes his blue eyes wide and sad. “No,” Ignis tells him. “No, I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you always sad?”

Ignis shrugs. His tutors always tell him not to do that, but he’s with Noct, so that makes it okay. “I miss my family,” he says. “I miss my sister and my brother.” He looks down at his hands. “And my mother,” he admits.

Noct swings his legs for a little while. Ignis doesn’t mind; he likes just sitting here. Noct knows when to be quiet and when to talk, and they both know that Tenebrae has changed them both. Noct finally says, “I never knew my mom.”

“I never knew my father.”

“You know mine,” Noct tells him, and he grins. He’s missing a tooth on the left side, which Ignis doesn’t think he’s noticed before. Noctis doesn’t smile that often. “And he likes you.”

Ignis offers a little smile in return. “I’m glad.”

“And I like Luna and Ravus.” Noct’s brow furrows a little bit, and his face falls into a pout. “And Umbra and Pryna. They were all nice.”

“They were,” Ignis agrees.

“They’ll come back,” Noct tells him. “I promise. When I’m king one day, I’ll make sure they come to Insomnia. They can live with us.”

It’s a nice enough thing to think, but Ignis isn’t sure if his siblings will ever make it out of Tenebrae. Nothing is certain in this war, and he’s not eager to lose them in an attempt to steal them from the grasp of Niflheim, whether Noctis is the king or not. He won’t risk their lives just because he misses them. 

Besides, he’s worrying already for his friend. Noct’s just a child for now, but Ignis knows the prophecy of the astrals, and the fate that they have set out for him, even though he feels like the astrals haven't told him the whole story. Noct's the Chosen. Somewhere out there, the darkness waits for Noctis to become a king. Ignis shudders to think about it, especially when they’re just a couple of children under the stars.

Ignis only hopes that he can always be around to guide him. Maybe it’ll make things easier.

He stares at the stars and prays that the astrals will give him the power to keep Noct safe.

Gentiana comes to him that night, and she touches his cheek with a hand colder than winter. “Even though you have not yet ascended, the calling of the Oracle comes to you. So, too, does my allegiance.”

She kisses his forehead, and frost blooms across his skin, unbearably cold but entirely unharmful. Ignis gasps at the feeling, and it’s as if she’s reached the very core of him, tapping into the part of him that always kept him from being scared of the dark. It feels like the light in his heart that his mother told him would ignite when his time came. It reaches out as if it’s woken up, rising up to meet the Messenger like an old friend. The frost creeps down into his heart in its place, and Ignis isn’t afraid. 

Gentiana draws back, and she smiles at him sadly, and there is golden light in her eyes now, curiously familiar. She murmurs, “Go forth, Ignis, and may the Glacian’s blessing go with you.”

Ignis can hardly catch his breath. He whispers, “Thank you.”

And Gentiana is gone, leaving only snowflakes in her wake.

For what feels like forever and no time at all, Ignis stands there in his bedroom, a foreign prince in a foreign city. He feels...empty. Not hollow, no, but as if there’s not quite as much of him there as they used to be. His mother had told him once, with the quiet comforting music of a bedtime story, that the Oracles of old would give part of themselves in return for the allegiance of the astrals in times of war. He’d never expected that this would come to him so soon.

His first covenant.

He stops wearing black.

 

\---

 

Ravus and Lunafreya write when they can. 

The Messengers are happy enough to help circumvent the magic of the Wall and the might of Niflheim to keep Ignis in contact with those he has left behind. Besides, the gods are asleep. It’s not as if they have any urgent messages to send anyway.

Ignis would know if they did.

Noct begins sending a scrapbook back and forth with Luna, with whom he’d grown close during his stay in Tenebrae. Umbra carries that for them, and more often than not he can be seen trotting along the halls at Noct’s side. When Ignis writes to his sister, he tucks his letters in between the pages of the scrapbook, half-pasted down by one of Noct’s stickers. He knows she’ll get the message. Her replies are sweet, but Ignis only gets a chance to see them when Noctis brings the notebook around to show him. He doesn’t blame Noct, of course, but he misses his sister.

It’s easier to write to Ravus anyway, he thinks. They both, somehow, feel responsible. Ignis left, and Ravus joined the ranks of the army that killed their mother, and both of them can do nothing but watch as their old lives fade into memory.

_ Ignis, _

_ Thank you for your birthday letter and gift. Umbra made sure it was unharmed in his travels back to Fenestala. You’re right: seventeen is a momentous birthday. Lunafreya tells me that my hair is growing too long, but I find that I prefer it this way. Kindly convince her as much in your next letter; I will not stand the disapproval of both of my siblings. She has included a photograph in her journal with Prince Noctis, if you’d like to see how we look now. _

_ The emperor has personally requested that I visit Gralea and receive a commendation. He insists that the heir to Tenebrae must be recognized, but I am not its heir. They act as if you are dead, Ignis, like Mother. I know the truth, though, and Tenebrae is yours if you return to us. Until then, I keep it safe for you. I do not wish to go to meet the man who ordered the destruction of our home, Ignis. I fear that he will recognize the hate in my heart, and that he will once more rain death on our home and our people.  _

_ I will go, though, for the sake of our people. I keep your photograph in my uniform, and Lunafreya’s, and our mother’s. I keep you close. Remember that you are loved, Ignis, and that we await you at home. _

_ Your brother, _

_ Ravus _

Ignis reads the letter half a hundred times before he puts it down, memorizing every delicate loop of his brother’s handwriting. Noctis has brought him Luna’s photo, as promised, and Ignis pulls it out to inspect it. There they are: his older siblings. Ravus isn’t in his royal attire anymore. He’s wearing an elegant white uniform like what their father wore in the photographs they have of him, and his hair is indeed longer, sweeping down towards his chin in a shining fall of silver. Luna stands by his side in a white dress, proudly displaying the crest of Tenebrae. Even in the photograph, her eyes are defiant. 

Neither of them are smiling. 

Ignis stares at them for longer than he’d ever dare to admit. It’s been so long since he’s seen their faces. After all this time, he can’t help but trace the lines of their faces, committing them to memory as well. It’s hardly been two years, but things have changed so much. Would that they hadn’t. He folds the letter and the photo and tucks them into the breast pocket of the Tenebraen jacket that Gentiana brought him, keeping them close to his heart.

He bends over, puts his head in his hands, and he sobs.

 

\---

 

“You cannot leave Insomnia,” King Regis tells him one day. Ignis is twelve and restless, despite his best efforts to focus on his studies. He excels - of course he does - but he yearns for the mountains of his home and for fields of sylleblossoms blowing in the wind. There are no sylleblossoms in Insomnia.

Ignis scowls and immediately regrets it. He schools his face into something more passable and complacent. The Oracle shouldn’t be rude. The Oracle is peaceful and nice and sweet. “Shouldn’t I be out there?”

“It’s not safe. The war threatens us all.”

“My mother traveled the world to heal our people.” Ignis picks at the hem of his tunic. 

Regis sighs. “Your mother, Ignis, traveled a world that did not threaten her. A world that respected her divine right. Niflheim does not fear the gods anymore, and even less do they fear the mortal Oracle.”

Ignis protests, “Tenebrae needs me. The people need me.”

“One day you will rule Tenebrae once more, Ignis. When that day comes, you must be ready.” Regis smiles down at him, but his eyes are sad. “You and Noctis are both destined to be kings.”

Ignis turns his head to the side, breaking eye contact with the king. “Noctis is destined to die,” he mutters.

There’s a long, pained silence. Briefly, Ignis feels triumphant: he’s beaten the king at his own game. “Ignis,” Regis says at last, voice strained, and guilt replaces the triumph.

He looks back at Regis, and he hates the way that he’s made Regis look miserable. “Your Majesty…”

“No, Ignis.” Regis holds up a hand to silence him. “You’re right.”

Ignis frowns. Of all the things he’d been expecting, it wasn’t defeat in the voice of the king of Lucis. “Your Majesty,” he tries again.

“I fear for my son, Ignis. As do you. Your burden is enormous, young as you are.”

“It’s my duty.” That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? “I just want to help him.”

“Then stay by his side in safety.”

“But-”

“You are young, Ignis. Lucis is no place for the Oracle, and certainly no place for a twelve year old.”

Ignis furrows his brow. “The Oracle’s place is wherever darkness goes, and wherever the gods command him to go.” He reaches up to fiddle with his glasses. It’s a tic he’ll need to train out of himself before his tutors notice; for now, it’s more of a comfort than a nuisance. “Besides, Your Majesty, the Marshal was fighting by your side at thirteen.”

Regis winces. “Ah. Cor was...a special case.”

“Is the Oracle not?” Ignis challenges.

Regis sighs once more. “You are special in your own regard, Ignis. And that is what makes me want to keep you safely behind the Wall. For now, at least. Until you get stronger.”

“Stronger,” Ignis repeats.

“Stronger,” Regis answers with a finality that suggests a dismissal. “I promise. We’ll talk about leaving the Wall in a few years.”

Ignis bites at his lip; he nods. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and that’s the end of it.

_ Stronger. _

Ignis doesn’t tell Regis about the covenant that thrums like a hymn in his bones, and the way it turns his blood to ice. 

There are some things that only the Oracle can know.

 

\---

 

One day, Ravus’s letters stop coming.

Ignis doesn’t know whether to mourn him or dread him.

Ravus would rather die than bend the knee in submission; Ignis knows this. He fears, though, that Niflheim ended up breaking him instead.

At night, he prays for Ravus, prays for Luna; prays for home.

 

\---

 

He’s fifteen when he finally decides what kind of Oracle he wants to be.

He’s long since given up asking King Regis about leaving the safety of the Wall. It always ends in some sort of half-argument that sends Ignis’s blood boiling until he’s halfway across the Citadel, angrily burying himself in his studies of the most mundane subject he can find to avoid thinking about the world beyond the Wall. Ignis hates those days. He hates feeling helpless.

Instead, he settles.

He’s in Regis’s office, having just finished a report on his communication with the Messengers. They don’t have much to say; they’re cagey, and try as Regis might to get information out of them, the astrals’ twenty four servants are beholden to none but the gods themselves. Gentiana delivers news when she deigns to, but often the only intel the Messengers provide comes from the scrapbook and letters Umbra shuttles to the Citadel. Ignis knows that Regis is frustrated; he is too.

“I wish I could do more,” Ignis admits.

The king shakes his head and says, “Ignis, you’ve done plenty. As Oracle, you do Lucis a great service.”

Ignis bites his lip around his instincts to ask to go out into the rest of Lucis and serve them the way he wishes he could. “Will you at least-” He stops himself.

Regis places a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Ignis?” he prompts.

“Let me fight.”

The soft, comforting smile fades from King Regis’s face. He closes his eyes for a moment, deep in thought. “You are a prince, Ignis,” he finally says, “and the Oracle. I would not have you-”

“Noctis is going to learn to fight,” Ignis insists. “We are at war. It may not be the role of the Oracle to fight battles, but I will stand by Noct’s side. He is the Chosen, and I will keep him safe.”

Regis sighs and sits back in his chair. “You understand, Ignis, that you will be risking your life to safeguard his.”

“Whatever it takes,” Ignis swears, “I will protect him.”

“Whatever it takes,” Regis muses.

Ignis nods, and he braces himself for Regis’s decision.

The king regards him for a long while, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. Beneath the ever-present sadness in his eyes, Ignis can see the shrewd mind of a warrior king. It’s not a side of Regis he often sees; for some reason, it fills him with a foreboding he doesn’t quite understand. “I don’t know if it’s possible,” Regis warns him at last, “but I may be able to grant you the power of the Crystal.”

“The Crystal?” Ignis breathes. He’d been expecting to be given a sword and sent on his way. To be blessed with the power of the Lucii is something he’d never imagined in his wildest dreams.

“The Oracle of the Chosen King should have powers to match.” Regis nods, as if he’s won a fight against some other instinct. “It will hurt, Ignis.”

Ignis meets his eyes. He does not look away. “Whatever it takes,” he insists.

“Very well.”

Regis reaches out to him, and the Ring glows on his finger, and suddenly Ignis shatters.

The king gives him the magic of the Crystal.

It hurts -  _ gods,  _ but it hurts - like glass is splintering through his blood, coursing through his body and tearing him apart, but it builds him stronger in its wake, turning his veins to crystal beneath his skin. The crystalline chill spreads to his heart, and Ignis nearly chokes around the raw power of it, but he closes his eyes and he lets it happen. It burns at first, like it’s warring with the magic that has already taken up residence in his bones, but the searing heat turns into a gentle warmth, and there it stays.

It’s actually comforting.

Ignis closes his eyes, and he looks inside himself where the golden light lives, and where the frost of his first covenant fills the gaps in between the light, and he searches for something new. It eludes him at first, but he is the Oracle, and he does not give up that easily. He keeps searching, chasing the warmth that has become a part of him, and then-

He finds the magic.

It’s blue.

Ignis gasps. “I feel it,” he whispers. “I see it.”

And he recognizes what Regis has done, because he would recognize that blueness anywhere. It’s the color of the sky between the stars, and of fishing ponds at sunset, and of eyes he would know anywhere.

_ Noct. _

 

\---

 

Ignis learns to fight.

The first step is to use the Crystal’s magic at all. It resists him; fights against those not of Lucian blood, but Noctis helps him through it with fumbling explanations. They’re both new to this, but at least the magic of the Crystal has always been part of Noct’s blood, so it allows him to craft a spot in the armiger that Ignis can call his own.

King Regis has placed a dagger there, apparently. It’s Ignis’s task to retrieve it.

“You just-” Noct reaches his hand out, and suddenly his fishing rod is there, exploding into a shower of white sparks. He plucks it out of the air and shows it to Ignis. “Grab it.”

“Noct, that wasn’t helpful.” Ignis extends his own arm as well, and he tries to focus on the image of a dagger, and to imagine it in his grasp, but the sensation eludes him, and the magic as well. He sighs. “Is there anything more descriptive that may be of help?”

Noct shrugs helplessly. “Sorry. It’s something I can just, y’know...do.”

Ignis rubs at the bridge of his nose, nudging his glasses away and down his nose. He pushes them back up impatiently; maybe he really should think about wearing contact lenses. “Where’s the magic?” he asks.

“What?”

“The magic,” Ignis repeats. “Like…” He holds his open palm over his heart. “I feel the magic of the Oracle here. The magic of the Crystal is there as well, but I can’t quite reach it.”

“So you know where it is!” Noct exclaims. “That’s the first step.”

“I’m quite afraid that the other steps are the ones I’m struggling to understand,” Ignis laments. He clenches his fist again; once again, he grasps nothing but air.

“We can work on it.”

“I’m trying, Noct.”

“Just, uh-” Noct banishes his fishing rod and summons it again in rapid succession. “Look at where the magic is. Do you feel this?”

Ignis closes his eyes and tries to focus on the blue place in his heart, and he frowns when he feels a curious flickering. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Chase it. The armiger’s there.”

Ignis chases the feeling; he chases Noct.

He reaches out when he sees the blueness in his mind’s eye, and he closes his fingers around the sensation of magic, and he thinks  _ please. _

He’s holding something.

Ignis opens his eyes.

Noctis is staring at him. His eyes are wide, bright blue like using his powers so much has activated some hidden part of it in his irises, turning them iridescent with potential energy. His gaze flickers to Ignis’s hand, and Ignis follows his gaze. He’s holding a dagger.

“Oh,” Ignis says.

“Yeah,” Noct replies. He sounds curiously strangled.

“Did I do something wrong?” Ignis asks, twirling the dagger between his fingers.

“No,” Noctis insists quickly, just a little too loud. He looks up at Ignis with eyes blown wide with wonder. “No, nothing wrong at all.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “You just learn fast. Gladio took longer.”

Ignis grins and banishes the dagger to the armiger. He summons it and banishes it once more, enjoying the crystalline chill that creeps up his arms when he does it. “Gladio is impatient.”

“Yeah.” Noct stares at his fingers, then back to his face. “When d’you think Dad will let me have a sword?”

“When you come of age, I’m sure.”

“I’m thirteen!”

“That’s only three more years, Noct.”

Noct groans, “But you’re only fifteen!”

Ignis smirks. “I’m the Oracle.”

“Ignis!”

“Oh, come on.” Ignis flexes his fingers to get rid of the static-filled feeling that the magic leaves in his grasp, and he slings an arm over Noct’s skinny shoulders. Noct hasn’t quite hit his growth spurt yet, so Ignis towers over him for now, gangly and clumsy and not quite used to his body. It’s entirely unbecoming of the Oracle.

Ignis loves it.

He closes his eyes for a moment, searching for the spot in his heart where the armiger waits for him, and he smiles. Then he flicks Noct on the shoulder and carefully deflects Noct’s complaints. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

Noct whines.

Ignis smiles.

 

\---

 

Gladiolus warms up to Noctis over time, and eventually he starts talking to Ignis as well. He helps Noct with more than just fighting, and he invites Ignis to spar with the two of them. They make a good team, if Ignis says so himself. 

He likes Gladio’s honesty. Gladio doesn’t presume to be anything more than what he is. Despite his noble blood and natural affinity for the magic of the kings, he doesn’t act like it makes him anything more than what he’s meant to be. He grows into his role as Noct’s Shield with gusto.

Gladio asks him about what it’s like to be Oracle, and Ignis surprises himself by telling him about it. Not the whole truth, of course: he keeps secret the frost of his covenant and the truth of Noct’s future. But he mentions the burning of Tenebrae, and the legacy of his mother, and the parts of him that urge him to wander the world and pour light into the darkest places. The more he talks about it, the more Ignis realizes how lonely it all is. There’s not one person like him in all of Eos.

There’s not any other person like Gladio, either, so it’s easy to talk to him about inheritance, and destiny, and Noct.

When Gladio starts the arduous process of tattooing his family’s crest on his body, he comes to Ignis to help with the designs. He’s nervous about making the ink stretch too far; it’s practically unheard of for the Shield to ever get the tattoo at a size larger than a dinner plate.

Ignis insists that he follow his instincts. Instincts were what drove him to learn to fight, and they’re what tell him that these people he’s accumulating around him are important, are special, are  _ home. _

Gladio invites him to his tattoo sessions. Ignis attends every one.

“What’re you afraid of, Iggy?” Gladio asks him one night. They’re sixteen and seventeen, on the edge of their more reckless years. They’ve both got Crystal magic in their veins, and they both fear for what lies ahead. Normally, Ignis wouldn’t tolerate such a nickname, but from Gladio it sounds natural.

Ignis shrugs. His training insists that he should cease with such casual gestures, but he likes how it makes him feel closer to Gladio. “Plenty, I suppose. The usual things. Death. Pain.”

_ Fire,  _ he thinks, and for a moment all he sees is Tenebrae.

Gladio glances sidelong at him. His skin is red today where the tattoo artist has begun shading in the feathers along his left arm, leaving him unfinished; a masterpiece in progress. “What about failure?”

Ignis bows his head. “Every day,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Gladio says quietly. “Me too.”

They leave it at that.

 

\---

 

Noctis makes a friend.

Ignis meets him when Noct brings him to the Citadel for the first time. He’s a friendly kid, skinny and nervous but enthusiastic to an almost alarming degree. His name is Prompto, and Ignis can’t help but be immediately charmed. 

Something in the back of his mind cries out, though, and it tells him to  _ heal. _

Ignis studies the boy in front of him. He looks healthy enough; Ignis can’t imagine why someone like him would need anything from an Oracle. He shrugs it off.

“Let’s take a picture,” he suggests to Noct. “Luna would love to hear about him.”

Prompto blinks at him, eyes wide and violet-blue. “L-Luna?” he stammers. “Like...Lady Lunafreya?”

“The very same.” Ignis tilts his head. “We stay in contact.”

“Oh!” Prompto rubs at the back of his neck. “Of course you do. You’re her-” He leans in close, like he’s about to tell a secret. “Her brother, right?”

Ignis smiles a little bit. “Is it that much of a surprise?”

“Everyone knows that, Prompto,” Noctis grouses, wandering over to a cabinet to rummage around for a snack. He pulls out a bag of chips and chucks it across the room to Prompto, who catches it with surprising swiftness. “He’s the Oracle.”

“I mean, I know that,” Prompto admits, tearing open the bag of chips. “But, like. Y’know. Nobody knows much about his...siblings.” He looks at Ignis. “Your siblings. Uh.”

Ignis turns his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “Not to worry.”

“You can get to know his siblings, then.” Noct comes back over and nudges Prompto. “You’ve got your camera; put it to work. Luna’s cool. Ravus doesn’t talk to us much anymore, but he’s nice enough.”

Ignis winces.

Prompto pulls a camera from his school bag. It’s a nice model, and definitely more well-loved than anything else he’s wearing, save for a slightly tattered band around his right wrist. “C’mon, then. Can’t keep a princess waiting!” He turns the camera around so the lens is facing them, and he chirps, “Everyone gather ‘round!”

Noct huffs and obliges, sidling up so that he’s close to Prompto, and he gives what he must think passes as a smile. It’s endearing, really.

Ignis leans in as well, thinks of Luna, and smiles.

 

\---

 

Ignis grows used to the magic in his veins, and to the way that it wars with the blessing of the gods. He fears the combination sometimes, and often his dreams are plagued with images of long-past wars and of a darkness that threatens to swallow the world. More and more, as the war drags ever on and Lucis loses more ground to Niflheim, Ignis feels the impossible pressure of fate driving him forward. It whispers to him in the accent of the kings and in the tongue of the astrals, urging him towards a destiny he fears.

Is this how Noct will feel when Ignis wakes the gods on his behalf? Will he, too, have dreams of the past and the present and a distant, terrible future?

Does he already?

Ignis turns twenty without much official ceremony. The common people of Insomnia throw a celebration in his honor, though, and Ignis makes an appearance after much convincing on Gladio’s part. Prompto comes along, though he’s nervous to be at his and Noct’s side in front of everyone who has gathered to welcome Ignis to his second decade of life.

It’s a wonderful celebration, if Ignis is being honest. Every Insomnian is eager to welcome him into their hearts, even if he can’t do much for them here. They remind him of Tenebrae’s citizenry, even after ten years away from his homeland.

So now he’s spent half of his life away from Tenebrae. It’s a sobering thought, especially when it comes with the realization that every day spent here from now on marks the growing majority of his life as a fugitive.

He’s less happy after that, and he quietly excuses himself from the festivities to return to his chambers in the Citadel.

King Regis had offered him an apartment like Noct’s, but Ignis likes having the Crystal so close. His dreams of late are filled with fire once more, and he fears that one day soon, something terrible will come to pass here. Knowing that the Crystal is safe, at least for now, is comforting. So Ignis lives here in the center of the city, as far from harm as he could possibly be at this point.

Ignis tries his best to distract himself, but everything he usually takes comfort in only reminds him of what he’s lost. Luna and Ravus’s letters will only make him miss his siblings, and photographs will remind him of the passage of time since he arrived at Insomnia. Even the mirror offers little comfort. He stares at himself for a few long moments: glasses, pale brown hair flat against his forehead, and an elaborate white and silver jacket. Oracle, through and through. Foreign prince. Foreign land.

So he sits on the edge of his bed, and he tries to forget about it all.

It doesn’t really work.

“Some birthday,” he mumbles aloud. 

Nobody answers. Ignis had half-wished that maybe Gentiana would appear and offer some form of comfort, but she does no such thing. It wasn’t much of a prayer, anyway, so Ignis doesn’t blame her.

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when Noct carefully nudges past his half-closed door.

“Hello,” Ignis greets him quietly.

“Hey.” Noct stands by the door a little awkwardly. He’s holding something in one of his hands, hardly distinguishable against the black of one of his more formal black suits. Ignis is privately pleased that Noct decided to dress up for his birthday, of all things. “Can I-”

Ignis stands abruptly. “Of course,” he says, a little too loudly.

Noct eyes him curiously as he walks further into Ignis’s bedroom. “Everything okay?” he asks, heading for the window. He tugs a curtain aside and looks down at the streets below. There are white streamers hung on some of the buildings, incongruous with the usual black of Lucis’s capital. Another reminder; Ignis can’t ever seem to forget what he is.

Ignis follows him after a moment of deliberation, joining him by the window. He hopes he doesn’t look too upset. “Yes,” he answers softly. “Yes, I think I’ll be okay.”

“Good.”

“Yes,” Ignis agrees, though he feels far from good. “Yes, it is.”

Noct fidgets beside him. “Hey, I-” He stops, biting his lip.

Ignis glances sidelong at him. “Yes, Noct?”

“Happy birthday,” Noctis says abruptly, and he thrusts a little black box towards Ignis.

Carefully, Ignis takes it from him. “Noct, you didn’t have to-”

“It’s your twentieth, Specs.” Noct is resolutely avoiding eye contact, hiding behind the dark fringe of his hair. “And you’re the Oracle. And I’m the prince.”

Ignis stops and raises an eyebrow, clutching the box to his chest. “What does that have to do with my birthday present?”

“Just open it.”

“If you insist.” The box isn’t wrapped, so the soft velvet texture of it is smooth beneath Ignis’s fingertips. Ignis flips aside the silver latch holding it closed, and he opens the box.

For a long moment, he says nothing. He has no idea, for once, what he should say. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but it’s not this. It’s not a tiny silver skull pendant nestled in black silk, connected to an elaborate silver and gold chain.

“Oh, Noct,” Ignis breathes, “it’s wonderful.”

“So.” Noct rubs at the back of his neck. “Since I’m prince and all, and you’re the prince of Tenebrae, I thought you should have something to, y’know, represent it. You’ve lived here for years and you hardly have anything to show for it.”

“Noct.”

“You keep telling me about maintaining the relationship between allied nations.” Noctis finally looks up to meet his eyes, and he smiles a bit, lopsided and lazy and beautiful. “Thought I’d finally take your advice for once.”

_ Remember who you are,  _ Gentiana’s voice reminds him.

He ignores her for once. This may be a Lucian relic, but it’s from Noctis. He lifts the chain from the box, enjoying the gentle slide of the silvery links along his fingers, and the pendant comes with it. It has a pleasant weight to it, gleaming silver and, if his eyes aren’t deceiving him, Ignis thinks there may be obsidian stones set in the eyes of the skull. Those stones are exceedingly rare without access to Ravatogh. It’s too much for Ignis to possibly deserve.

And yet, Noctis has done this for him.

He blinks at Noctis. “Would you-” He pauses and swallows around the swell of some unnameable emotion in his throat. “Would you help me put it on?”

Noctis stares at him for a moment. He makes a curiously strangled sound with no words attached, and he blinks before seeming to shake himself back into awareness. “Uh,” he rasps. “Uh, yeah, Specs, of course.”

He reaches out his hand, and Ignis carefully slings the chain of the necklace around his fingers. If their hands brush, well, it’s not completely by accident.

Noct’s touch disappears, and he meets Ignis’s gaze once more before ducking his head with a quiet mumble of “hang on” and quickly moving around so that he’s behind Ignis. Ignis closes his eyes, waiting for Noct to get close once more. For some reason, he wants to be surprised. Noct is quick enough; his hand ghosts past Ignis’s neck, and the pendant dangles from his fingers, brushing and bumping against Ignis’s collarbone. Ignis shivers; the metal is cold.

Noct reaches a hand around Ignis’s neck to meet his other one, grabbing the other end of the chain. He draws his hands backwards, and this time both of his hands brush Ignis’s neck, careful and gentle against his skin. Ignis tries harder to repress his shiver this time. Noctis, to his credit, is mostly silent. His fingers are warm at the back of Ignis’s neck, carefully, fastening the clasp.

Ignis is almost disappointed when he hears it click into place.

Noct’s touch disappears, and his presence fades from Ignis’s back, but he’s only returning to face Ignis, eyes inscrutable and dark. Ignis watches him for a moment, but Noct doesn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze flickers to Ignis’s collarbones, then up to his eyes, and down to his lips, and back again. 

“How does it look?” Ignis asks, a little shyly.

Noct smiles -  _ really  _ smiles. “Good,” he says, and it sounds genuine. “Really, really good.”

Ignis looks down at himself, admiring the pendant. He reaches up and traces the smooth lines of the skull, carefully tracing along the sharper fanged prongs at the bottom of it. It really is a beautiful piece. 

Maybe, he thinks, he can be a Lucian after all.

For Noct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm planning on rolling through the plot of the game to follow the covenants with oracle!ignis and company. :)
> 
> find me on tumblr [here.](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	2. insomnia.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia's careful peace is fractured with the arrival of a very specific man with a very specific offer.

When Ignis is twenty two, the world breaks once more.

It’s a more subtle shattering than the attack on Tenebrae, but it’s enough to disturb the easy currents of his inner peace. He’s in his own chambers in the Citadel with Noct, idly flipping through a report at his desk while Noct sprawls on his carefully made bed sheets, scrolling through his phone. 

“Noct,” he calls quietly, frowning down at a figure. “Did you see this?”

“See what?”

Ignis inspects the report more closely, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Niflheim pulled their forces back in a recent clash,” he says. “They brought daemons. Massive daemons. But then they let the Kingsglaive force escape without much difficulty.” He turns and looks at Noct. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

Noct looks up from his phone, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned. “What, you think they’re just playing with us?”

Ignis frowns. “I’m not sure. But I don’t like how close they’re getting to Insomnia.”

“We’re safe here, Ignis, c’mon.” Noct’s eyes flicker back towards his phone.

“I suppose you’re right.” But the thought still stays in the back of his mind, insistent and insidious. It reminds him distantly of the roar of airships over Tenebrae, and of the sounds of metallic boots hitting the ground from far above. And the gunshots, and the screams, and of the scent of blood in the air, and his hand in the king’s, and-

He shakes his head and smiles faintly. “Quite safe,” he agrees. The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

Noct makes a noncommittal noise and fully devotes his attention back to whatever he’s doing on his phone.

Ignis watches him for a few moments, studying the peaceful set to Noct’s face and the focus in his eyes. He wishes that he could just focus on something other than the reality of the war around them.

He returns to his report. He doesn’t like reading things like this, especially when the casualties are reported. The loss of life doesn’t sit right with him. Even in the older days, when the Lucians were the conquerors and warriors of legend, the Oracle had been the peaceful counterbalance to whatever reckless god-monarch ruled Lucis at the time. Ignis seems to have inherited that proclivity for pacifism, even if he knows that it’s for naught in times like this. Somehow, it feels even more unfair that Niflheim is using magitek troopers and cyborgs instead of true soldiers to do their bidding. 

Would it be easier if Niflheim had soldiers of their own as well? Or would it just make this whole conflict worse?

Ignis scowls. He adjusts his glasses and tries to focus on the reading and the facts at hand instead of the fact that it details the deaths of his adopted countrymen. He wonders if he’d be able to feel their loss if he focused hard enough on the armory they all share.

And then he feels...different. 

He shudders. Something cold and oily and  _ dark  _ sits in the back of his awareness now, drawing closer with every passing second. Ignis isn’t quite sure how it got there; it’s as if one moment it wasn’t there and then it was, like a switch was flipped or a door opened. Now that it’s here, though, Ignis isn’t sure he can ever quite feel the same, knowing that something like this exists.

“Noct,” he says again, slowly, and perhaps a little too loudly over the roaring in his ears.

“Hm?”

“Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

Ignis opens his mouth to reply, but he finds himself speechless. The darkness in the back of his mind drips cold, raw sensation down his spine, spreading like tar to reach out to the well of golden light in his heart. He recoils from the feeling, hunching in on himself over the desk. Ignis grits his teeth and gasps, just a bit, at a twinge of pain.

There’s a shuffling sound behind him as the sheets shift. “Specs?”

Ignis shakes his head and grimaces. “Nothing,” he replies tightly, resolutely not turning to look Noct in the eye. 

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Think nothing of it,” Ignis insists. “Just a passing feeling, surely.”

Noct doesn’t press the issue. That’s good, at least. Ignis doesn’t want to be worrying Noct about some needless, incorporeal sensation. Maybe he just hasn’t gotten enough sleep. That must be it; he’s been spending longer nights in the library and in prayer, catching naps between his studies and whatever meetings Regis allows him to sit in on. He knows Noct is similarly overtired; it’s not easy being a prince of either of their nations. The last thing either of them needs is another pointless concern.

He ignores it for as long as he can, but the darkness builds to a crescendo in his awareness over the course of a few agonizing minutes, feeling so close that Ignis fears it must be right at his doorstep.

Ignis isn’t quite sure he’s ever felt dread like this before.

And suddenly Noct’s there, kneeling beside his desk chair.  _ Well, that’s not right,  _ Ignis thinks absently. Noct shouldn’t be kneeling; he’s the prince. But Noct’s here, and Ignis can’t help but feel relieved. “What the hell, Ignis?” Noct asks, and he reaches out for Ignis’s arm. “You’re shaking.”

“Something’s wrong,” Ignis rasps, because he can’t hold it in anymore. “Something’s terribly wrong.”

He’s had that instinct before - around Prompto, and in his dreams when he imagines the crippling darkness - but never before has every nerve in his body screamed to him at once, begging him to  _ heal heal heal- _

“Ignis!”

Ignis blinks, hard, and tries to focus his eyes on Noct’s face. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I’m here. I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize,” Noct tells him, and there’s a rough edge to his voice as he lifts Ignis from the ground -  _ when did he fall to the ground?  _ \- and presses the back of his hand to Ignis’s forehead in a clumsy imitation of Ignis’s usual treatment of him. “You said something’s wrong. Do you feel something? Do you feel sick?”

“Sick, no. But-” Ignis winces around the insistent golden pull to  _ heal- _ “But I certainly feel something.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, it’s-” Ignis waves him off, trying to get space to draw breath. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses out of the way. “It’s not any sort of pain, really.”

“It sure looks like it is, Specs.”

Ignis grimaces. So maybe Noct is right about that part. The urge to heal is one he’s never quite felt, but that his mother had told him about. Next to the covenants, it is the Oracle’s greatest burden. But it’s associated with the Starscourge, the ancient plague of darkness to which Ignis’s line is devoted to destroying. Ignis hasn’t known the feeling of that since the breathless whirlwind days between his mother’s death and his arrival in the sacred city of Insomnia. The darkness, here and now, is closer and stronger than anything he’s ever felt.

If it’s come within the Wall, then-

“I’m concerned,” he admits.

“Understatement of the century, dude. C’mon.” 

“No, I-”

“Stop that,” Noct snaps. There’s a curiously shaky note in his voice, breaking from Noct’s usual feigned apathy. Ignis would be charmed if he didn’t feel like he was about to cry. “Glasses. Now.”

Ignis wordlessly removes them from his face and holds them out. Noct takes them from him and sets them aside somewhere close; from the way they sound when they hit the desk, Ignis hopes that Noct folded them the way Ignis likes. “Noct,” he says faintly, and he screws his eyes shut against the way that speaking makes his head throb, “this isn’t necessary.”

“You’re a bad liar, Specs.”

“I’m being honest, Noct.”

Noct snorts, but when his hands return to Ignis, his fingers are shaking. He pushes a strand of hair out of Ignis’s eyes. “Try to breathe,” he says. “You always tell me that when I have my bad days.”

“Quite right,” Ignis agrees, drawing in breath past the oppressive dark weight in his chest.

He’s not sure how long he’s sitting there, but eventually he’s aware of something cool being pressed to his forehead. He cracks open one of his eyes, and he can’t help but smile. Noct is kneeling by his side, frowning in concentration as he carefully dabs a wet washcloth on Ignis’s forehead. Ignis watches him do it through half-lidded eyes, studying the way that Noct’s eyes are focused on him with a single-minded concentration.

“Thank you, Noct,” he murmurs.

Noct hums in response, and they fall quiet once more until only their breathing fills the silence.

And Ignis breathes.

The feeling ebbs and recedes, like the tide going out, and the darkness and urgency begin to fade from his mind. Ignis sighs at the relief with every passing moment. 

“Did that help?” Noct asks quietly.

Ignis smiles faintly at him. “Yes,” he replies, though he doesn’t quite think that the washcloth helped quite as much as the departure of whatever terrible soul had drawn close enough for Ignis to feel. The agonizing clarity gives way to fuzzy relief, and Ignis has to admit that the washcloth does feel quite relieving against his feverish skin.

Noct’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and some of the tension bleeds from his face. “Good.”

There’s a sharp rapping on the door of Ignis’s suite.

Noct looks up and groans, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head. “What now?”

Ignis frowns and moves to get up, but Noct stops him with a firm hand against the center of his chest, keeping him in the chair. Ignis looks down and raises an eyebrow. “I need to get the door, Noct.”

“I got it, Specs.” Noct lifts his hand when he seems reasonably assured that Ignis will comply and stay put, and he walks over to the door, opening it to reveal none other than Clarus Amicitia himself. “Oh,” Noct says.

“Master Clarus,” Ignis calls from his seat. He levers himself upward; the noxious pain in his lungs is disappearing, and he feels like he can breathe again. He sets the washcloth aside on his desk, lamenting the effect it’ll have on the varnished wood, and heads towards the door.  “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” He’s not going to say that he’s surprised to see Clarus Amicitia coming to them personally, but...he is. For him to come directly to Ignis’s rooms and not just summon them speaks of some greater purpose.

“Lord Ignis. Prince Noctis.” Clarus dips his head to them, oddly formal. “His Majesty requests a meeting with you.”

Noct furrows his brow, glancing over to Ignis as he approaches the door. He gives a little sigh of exasperation; Ignis isn’t quite sure whether it’s at the situation or the fact that Ignis ended up standing anyway. “Right now?”

“Immediately.”

“Both of us?”

“He specifically requested as much.” Clarus’s pale, piercing eyes fall on Ignis. “Are you well, Lord Ignis?”

Frowning, Ignis replies, “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Then you’ll forgive me if I ask that I escort both of you to His Majesty’s office right now.”

Ignis forces a genial smile. “Of course.”

Clarus nods curtly. “I’ll give you a moment, of course, to prepare yourselves. Don’t concern yourselves with your outfits; I’m sure Regis won’t mind, given the short notice.” His lips thin out, just a bit, when he seems to realize that he’s used the king’s first name out of some old habit.

“Thank you,” Ignis says to spare Clarus any sort of embarrassment. “Just a moment.” He reaches out for Noct’s wrist and pulls him back into the room, prodding him towards where he’d left his shoes in a pile by Ignis’s bed. “Quickly,” he urges.

“You’re barely conscious,” Noct protests quietly, keeping his voice below what Clarus can hear. “Can’t we wait?”

Ignis turns from where he’s retrieving his own shoes by his desk. “Do I look that bad?” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

Noct shrugs, makes a noncommittal gesture with both hands, and replies, “Pale.”

Ignis looks down at his own hands. They’re not shaking, at least, but he’s vaguely concerned with how clearly he can see his veins through his skin. “Better than nothing, I suppose,” he sighs, and he tugs on a pair of gloves to try to hide the worst of the tremors. His face can’t be helped, of course, and he avoids looking in the mirror purely so that he won’t pressure himself into fixing his face in a panic before meeting the king. Urgent means urgent, after all. 

Noct rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He finishes shoving his shoes on and stands, running a hand through his hair, spiking it back up. He frowns past Ignis and into the mirror behind him, probably displeased with his appearance. “Looks dumb,” he mutters.

“Looks  _ fine,”  _ Ignis insists, and he stretches a bit, shaking his head fiercely to try to clear the shadowy cobwebs there. It does...enough. Maybe? So he settles for enough, and he strides to the door, beckoning for Noct to follow.

Clarus gives them a quick once-over, and he seems at least satisfied with their appearances, if not exactly pleased. 

“Can you tell us what this is about?” Noct asks.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Clarus replies gruffly, and he says no more.

Ignis trails along quietly, still trying to sort his mind back into order. He studies Clarus’s back, noting that he’s still wearing his formal Council attire. He must have come straight from the throne room to fetch him, which significantly elevates the urgency of the situation in Ignis’s mind. Clarus usually at least has the time to take off the thick black and gold cloak so that he may walk freely in his suit. The gentle clinking of the golden accents on his cloak sound more like a whisper of warning than the soft regal music that Ignis usually hears.

Clarus leaves them at the door of Regis’s office instead of the throne room. He gestures to the door and solemnly tells them, “He’s waiting for you.”

Noct and Ignis exchange a look, but they each seem equally clueless. Noct shrugs and pushes the door open.

The king looks up at them as they enter; there are dark shadows beneath his eyes today. Ignis can’t help but assume that they aren’t purely because of the strain of the Wall. He thinks of the darkness and wonders if perhaps it came to visit Regis as well. 

“Well?” Noct prompts, folding his arms. “What’s the big rush?”

If Regis is displeased with the casual address, he doesn’t make any move to chastise or address it. Instead, he heaves a sigh and tells them, “The chancellor of Niflheim came here today.”

Ignis and Noctis repeat, in unison, “The chancellor?”

Regis nods, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose. “He walked into the throne room with no guard and no announcement. It was bold of him.” He raises his gaze to look at Ignis and Noctis. “Although I suppose he feels entitled. He has taken control of much of Lucis. Too much.”

Noct leans forward. “Is that going to change?”

“It will.”

A slow, triumphant grin spreads across Noct’s face. “Really?” he asks. He looks back at Ignis. “Specs, maybe you were right about the retreat.”

Ignis truly, truly wants to agree with him, but he sees the faint regret in the king’s eyes, and he says, “I fear, Noct, that the change may not be in our favor.”

“You’re right,” Regis tells him, and Noct deflates. “He came with an offer of surrender, and not his own. An end to the hostilities between our nations at last. It comes with a major condition, of course, from the losing side.”

“Us,” Noct says bitterly.

Regis nods. “Lucis is to give up all of its lands, save for Insomnia.”

“No,” Noct says immediately. He shakes his head. “No, c’mon, we’ve made it this far.”

“Noct, you must understand-”

“No, Dad, c’mon.”

“Noct!” Regis says sharply.

Noctis shuts his mouth, and his mouth twists into a bitter half-sneer. “This chancellor walked in and just-” He cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends a bit. “Who even is this chancellor?”

Ignis quietly supplies, “Chancellor Izunia.”

Regis nods. “A shadow when it comes to the empire’s public image; he’s an enigma by most standards. He works on the magitek infantry. I didn’t expect to see him, of all people.”

“A shadow,” Ignis echoes, and he shivers, but he’s not quite sure why.

“He had one other request.” Regis waves a hand; the Ring glints on his finger. “Not a request, really: it was a demand. A final condition.”

“Which is?” Noct leans forward, spreading his hands on his father’s desk.

“Noct, you are to be wed.”

Noct scowls. “The hell I am.”

“I’m afraid that refusal is not an option, Noct.”

“Do I get any say in this at all?” Noct demands. Electric magic crackles across his fingers. 

Ignis lightly places a hand on his wrist to attempt to calm him. It works well enough; at least, Noct clenches his fingers into fists and stops channeling the magic. “To whom, Your Majesty?” he asks quietly.

Regis sighs and meets his eyes. “To Lady Lunafreya of Tenebrae.”

Ignis freezes. “What?”

Noct repeats, “What?”

“Your Majesty,” Ignis says, speaking past the sudden roaring in his ears that sounds like  _ Luna,  _ “Forgive me for redundancy, but do you mean to say that Niflheim is offering my sister for marriage to Noctis?”

“I do, Ignis.”

“Why her?” Noct asks. “Why now?”

“She’s the most eligible of Niflheim’s conquered nobility. The Nox Fleurets are a royal house.”

“Not anymore,” Ignis mutters, still trying to clear his head of the ringing sound of his sister’s name.

Regis glances at him, surprised. “No,” he agrees. “Not anymore.”

“There’s no way there’s not some sort of ulterior motive,” Noct growls. “I don’t trust a Nif as far as I can throw one.”

“Noct,” Ignis says quietly.

Noct glances over at him. His eyes soften. “Ravus and Luna don’t count, Ignis,” he says. “Promise. You know that.”

Ignis nods, just a little bit. “Of course.” It still hurts, he thinks, just a bit.

Regis says, “I don’t doubt that there is an ulterior motive, Noctis, but this is the choice we must make.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me.”

“You’re right.” Regis looks between the two of them. “Noctis will be going to Altissia for the wedding.”

“Why not here?” Ignis asks.

“Altissia is...neutral ground, as it were. Having the ceremony in either nation implies a distinct imbalance of power.” Regis huffs out a laugh to himself, bitter and quiet. “Of course, I believe our current power imbalance is more than implied.”

“You believe,” Noct scoffs.

“Noct…” Regis starts wearily. He stops, shakes his head, and seems to begin a new train of thought instead of trying to reprimand Noct. “You’re to set out for Altissia before the signing.”

“When?”

“Soon. We haven’t quite worked out the dates.”

“Why don’t I stay here for the signing?”

“I don’t trust Niflheim enough to keep both of us here while they come within the boundary of the Wall. You’ll go somewhere safe instead, guarded by a few select companions who will stand by your side in protection and at the wedding. Meanwhile, Niflheim will be bringing Lunafreya here with them.”

Ignis straightens up a bit. “To the Crown City, sir?” His heart does an odd leap in his chest.

“And then onward to Altissia after the peace is made, where she and Noctis will then cement the peace with the union of the two great royal bloodlines of Eos.” Regis looks between them once more, taking note of something Ignis can’t quite guess. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at the moment. The Council has only just adjourned.”

“That’s it?” Noct asks, and his voice practically oozes discontent.

“I will be sure to keep you updated. Until then-”

“We wait,” Noctis supplies bitterly.

Regis raises an eyebrow. “You wait. Dismissed, Noct.”

Noct makes a wordless, disgusted noise and stalks out of the office without so much as a bow. “C’mon, Ignis,” he growls over his shoulder.

Ignis sighs and offers a quick bow to King Regis, grimacing through a wordless apology on Noct’s behalf. “Your Grace,” he says quietly, trying to keep his excitement and fatigue under wraps, and he turns on his heel to leave and chase Noct to wherever he’s decided to go sulk.

“Ignis,” Regis calls. “A moment of your time, please.”

Ignis pauses at the door; Noct turns when he doesn’t hear Ignis behind him and gives him a silent, questioning look. Ignis shakes his head and gestures back to Regis’s office. Noct scowls, but he turns on his heel and retreats anyway. His footsteps are heavier than normal, but Ignis supposes it can’t be helped.

The king folds his hands on his desk. “Are you okay, Ignis?”

“Perfectly fine, sir.” Ignis straightens his back a bit.

Regis studies him carefully. “You look shaken. I know this is much to handle, but I wanted to inform you as soon as I could.”

Ignis inclines his head in acknowledgment. “I appreciate it, sir,” he says, “though I will confess that it is a shock. To see my sister after all this time...I’m not sure how to take this news. That, and the news of peace.”

“Peace,” Regis echoes. “Yes, peace.”

It doesn’t sound entirely reassuring.

“Ignis,” Regis says quietly, “you know that fate comes for us all.”

Ignis bites at his lip. The message is clear enough. Fate only means one thing when it comes to Oracles and kings. “I’m aware, sir.”

“Then you know that the time draws close for action.”

“You fear that the war brings darkness, don’t you?” Ignis asks quietly. When Regis sets his jaw and doesn’t reply, Ignis says, “But the peace-”

“Peace is never guaranteed, Ignis.”

There’s a dangerous glint in King Regis’s eyes. It reminds Ignis of war and age-old conquests of lands he has never known. It reminds him of desperation. 

Ignis says, slowly, “So you need Noctis to be protected. Out of the city, doing his duty. Fulfilling his destiny.”

The king nods.

“Very well, then,” Ignis says, resigning himself to the promise of a war.

“Gladiolus will go with him, of course. And perhaps that friend of his as well. Prompto, is it?”

Ignis nods. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Regis makes a contemplative sound. “Very well. I’ll send for him to receive the necessary self defense training for the trip.”

Ignis waits for a moment, listening for the telltale signs of Regis continuing his sentence. When he doesn’t get anything, he carefully asks, “And what of me, sir?”

“I’m making arrangements for you and Cor to take an alternate route to the wedding.”

“The Marshal?” Ignis asks, and he leans forward, placing his hands on Regis’s desk. “With all due respect, I disagree. I should remain with Noctis as his guide and as his friend.”

Regis frowns. “Ignis, you will make it to Altissia eventually. Your path-”

“Should remain with Noctis, as it always has,” Ignis interrupts.

“I’d like if you were to change your path. Go to the gods. Wake them; implore them for aid in what may come.”

The covenants? “I’m staying with Noctis,” he insists. “I will not leave him. I can make the covenants by his side.”

“It’s too much of a risk.”

“Then let it be so!” Ignis snaps, surprising them both with the force of his words. He clings to that bold conviction and continues, “I am already his Crownsguard. I already have access to the armiger of the kings. The best place for me would always be by Noct’s side.”

Regis’s expression turns weary; it only serves to make him look more gaunt. “It will be dangerous.”

It’s enough of a resignation that Ignis recognizes it for the gift it is. He bows his head. “I’m aware, Your Grace. I’ll be sure to call on the Marshal should I need any aid.”

Regis’s lips twist a little, wry and faintly amused. “No, you won’t.”

Ignis almost laughs. “You know me too well.”

“Twelve years, Ignis,” Regis reminds him. “Twelve years.”

“Indeed,” Ignis agrees, and for a moment the two of them wait there, smiling at each other. Not for the first time, Ignis is stricken by how human Regis can look in times like this. Ignis may be destined to stand by Noct’s side, but with the death of his mother, he’s effectively the Oracle for King Regis as well. He fears, then, that he’s fallen rather short in his duties to his king. It’s too late for any sort of platitudes now, but Ignis can’t help but want to lay some sort of balm on the wound. “Your Grace, I have high hopes for this peace. For all of us.”

Regis’s desperate-dark gaze softens, if only a little bit. “I appreciate the sentiment, Ignis." He breathes out a sigh, contemplating for a moment. “You need a cover.”

“If you think that any of the others will be able to remember to call me a false name, you’re wrong.” Ignis fidgets, then quietly adds, “Sir.”

“A new last name, then.”

“Will it make that much of a difference?”

Regis sighs. “I doubt it.”

Ignis inclines his head in surrender. “If it’ll help, Your Majesty, of course I’ll take on a new name. Anything to keep a low profile for a little while longer.”

“We’ll think of something, I’m sure. A play on words, perhaps in Solheim’s language. You’re bookish; maybe we can work with that.”

“Scientia?” Ignis suggests. It’s a little obvious as far as the symbolism may go, but he quite likes it. 

“Ignis Scientia,” Regis murmurs, trying the name out. He nods, seemingly pleased. “Fine. So be it. We’ll discuss more later; you’re dismissed for now. See to it that my son doesn’t lay waste to the entire Citadel in his frustration.”

Ignis can’t help but smile at that. “I’ll do my best.”

Regis meets his eyes with an unflinching, serious gaze. “Stay safe, Ignis.”

Ignis nods. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He takes his leave.

The walk back to his chambers is a quieter one than usual, and far more reflective even than many of his daily prayers. The darkness in the back of his mind has receded to naught more than a pinprick; he’d almost think he’d imagined it if he didn’t know any better. He wonders if it will ever disappear for good. 

Despite his unease, he can’t help but counter it with the mounting joy in his heart. Lunafreya in Insomnia...Lunafreya with Noct, with Ignis, in the Citadel,  _ safe- _

It’s more than he ever could have hoped.

He’s not quite sure how he’s going to react to seeing her now, after all this time. She’s twenty four now, hardly the twelve year old he’d last spoken to her as. The letters have been kind enough, and they’ve kept her mind familiar to him, but her voice is as distant a memory as that of his mother’s face. Ignis isn’t quite sure how to have a sister anymore. He’s eager to learn how to do it once more.

The soft smile on his face hardly surprises him when he recognizes its presence, and there it stays as he makes his way through the winding, echoing hallways of the Citadel. 

Of course Noct has decided to return to Ignis’s room. Ignis supposes he should have expected that the prince would seek the solace of quiet, welcoming company in a time like this.

“Have you had time to calm down?” Ignis asks as he slips into his room and shuts the door behind himself.

Noct kicks at one of Ignis’s bedposts. “Sure.”

Ignis sighs, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

Another noncommittal mutter, this time unintelligible.

“Do try not to destroy my bedroom, Noct. I rather like it.”

Noct doesn’t reply, but at least he stops kicking Ignis’s bed. He’s wearing shoes, after all. He trudges over towards Ignis, hovering not far from his space. He leans past Ignis to pick up the washcloth that Ignis had left there, promptly stalking to the bathroom to throw it...somewhere. Ignis isn’t quite sure where, but the action by itself is momentous enough coming from the prince. When Noct returns, he’s sullen and silent.

Ignis takes advantage of the quiet and toes off his shoes and removes his gloves, setting them carefully aside while he waits. He’s not going to be the one to break the silence; he’s said his bit. This affects Noct more than it affects him, anyway, sister or not.

“What’s going to happen to Luna?” Noct finally asks.

“I’d assume you’ll be marrying her.”

“Ignis. C’mon.”

“Well, I’d expect that she’d come to live in Lucis.” Ignis sets about cleaning his desk; he pulls out a notepad and sets it aside. He’ll need to start making notes on what to pack. What does an Oracle wear to a wedding, anyway? Isn’t white what the bride wears?

“What would you do?”

“Well, I suppose that with the war over, I’d begin fulfilling my duties as Oracle. I’m sure that in my absence these twelve years, the Starscourge has spread to a terrifying extent.” Once more, he thinks of the terrible oily darkness that had rushed through Insomnia and into his awareness, only to recede like it had never been there. “Besides, I’ve always wondered what the world looks like beyond the Wall. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity to travel.”

“You’d leave?”

Something in Noct’s tone gives Ignis pause. He tilts his head but still doesn’t quite turn to look at Noct. He’s not sure what he’d say if he could see whatever look is in Noct’s eyes. “I suppose I would, if it were safe. Wouldn’t you?”

“Not forever.”

“I never said forever.”

“But you’d leave after the wedding.”

Ignis nods shortly. “I would.”

Noct’s silent for a long moment. Ignis lets him have the time to think; he carefully sets aside the contents of his desk in the meantime, laying out what he may want to bring on the road to the wedding. Noct doesn’t give him that respite for long. At last, he asks, “Why can’t I have both of you?”

Ignis pauses in the process of reaching for one of his books; he traces his fingertips along the spine of the book instead, trying to find solace in its texture. “Because that’s not how it works.”

“I don’t like that.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Nothing. I’d change it. When I’m king, I will.”

“And keep me from my duty?” Ignis asks quietly.

Noct challenges, “Aren’t you supposed to help me with mine?”

Ignis turns and looks Noct in the eyes at last. He’s surprised by the fierceness he finds there, as well as by how close Noct truly is. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “the path of duty takes us down different paths. I’m determined to have ours tread as closely as they can, Noct. Your destiny is mine, as mine is yours.”

“So stay by my side.”

“As much as I can,” Ignis promises. “You know that. I won’t just disappear into the void when I leave the city; I’ll always be in touch, and with the war over, you’ll be able to travel as you please.”

Noct hums at that. “Okay,” he says, but it’s a little dubious. Ignis supposes he’ll take what he can get.

“But until then,” he says, “I’ll be here. On this journey as well.” He can’t imagine how poorly this conversation would go if he hadn’t managed to convince Regis to send him along with Noctis instead of Cor.

“So you guys are supposed to be my Crownsguard.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “I already am, Noct,” he reminds him, and he summons a crystalline dagger to prove it.

“No.”

“Oh?”

“No. You’re the  _ Oracle.”  _ Noct says it with surprising fierceness. “You’re more than just Crownsguard.”

“It’s a reasonable enough cover,” Ignis points out. “Besides, it’s an honor to stand in defense of the True King.”

Noct glances sidelong at him. “Everyone talks about being the True King,” he mutters, “like that’s the only reason.”

“Noct-”

“Do you even  _ want _ to come with me? Luna’s coming here, apparently. You could just stay with her and meet us in Altissia after the signing.”

Ignis frowns. He’s be lying if he said that he hadn’t entertained the thought. He still misses Lunafreya, and the idea of her being safely within the Wall only makes him more excited. As an officer in the army, Ravus has a chance of arriving alongside her. The more he thinks about it, the more tempting it is. But it’s Noct’s suggestion that gives him pause, and it twinges at a part of him that he can’t quite explain. “Do you want me to stay here?” he asks quietly.

Noct’s silent for a moment. His lips press into a thin line, and he doesn’t quite meet Ignis’s eyes, hiding behind the dark fringe of his hair. Ignis is, for a long moment, convinced that Noct will tell him yes. But then Noct shakes his head sullenly, and he mutters, “No. ‘Course not.”

“Well then, that settles it,” Ignis says as lightly as he can, hoping that it hides the relieved fluttering in his heart. “I’ll be going with you to Altissia.”

It doesn’t seem to help much.

“So,” Noct says, voice tight, “you’re supposed to be my Crownsguard.”

Ignis nods. “I am.”

“You’ll want to be wearing black.”

Ignis winces, and Gentiana’s voice echoes in his head, reminding him of who he is. The skull necklace is enough, he thinks, to mark him as a Lucian ward. He won’t dare tell Noct as much, though. “Black is hardly subtle out in the world,” Ignis tells him.

Noct scowls. “Everyone wears dark clothes.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Glaives.”

Ignis snorts. “They wear black too.”

“Uniforms!”

“Exactly!” Ignis insists. “Nobody wears black unless their jobs require it of them.”

Noct folds his arms and stares hard at Ignis. “You’ll stand out. Oracles wear white.”

“White is an imperial color,” Ignis reminds him. “If anything, I’ll fit right in. Besides, I won’t be wearing  _ all _ white.”

Somehow, that makes Noct’s face fall all the more. “The white is nice.”

“It’s impractical on the road, if we’ll be camping,” Ignis insists. “And I just said I’d be wearing some.”

Noct pouts. “No black?”

“No black.” Ignis shakes his head. “Really, Noct, they should call you the prince of mixed messages.”

“But-”

“I’ll be wearing the white. And the necklace. Lucian and Oracle, just like always.”

“Always the same, Ignis.”

Ignis smiles, just a bit. “Would you have it any other way?”

Noct shakes his head, and there’s a ghost of a smile blooming on his face, too. “No,” he decides. “No, I don’t think I would.”

 

\---

 

Just two days before they’re to depart, they still haven’t finished packing up Noct’s apartment.

Ignis is privately pleased that Noct is going to end up in the Citadel once more. It’s not like he’s never there anyway; he comes often enough for his classes and meetings, and to hang out with Ignis. They split the time nicely, and with Noct moving back into his old haunts, the split will just be of a personal nature rather than a physical one.

Ignis doesn’t have a problem with splitting Noct between himself and his sister, really. It’s Luna; even the thought of her in the Citadel gives him more than enough joy to overshadow any lingering doubts he has of actually sharing the Citadel with someone who isn’t Noct.

After whatever it is that Regis has planned, they’ll come home. Ignis will make the covenants in Noct’s name, and Noct will banish whatever darkness Niflheim threatens to bring, and they’ll come home to Insomnia.

Come to think of it, Ignis isn’t quite sure when he started thinking of Insomnia as home.

“I’ve got something for you.”

Ignis turns from where he’s packaging up some of Noct’s video games. Noct’s holding a rectangular black box that’s wrapped in silver ribbon. It looks distantly familiar; Ignis thinks that this wrapping is similar to the box in which Noct delivered him the gift of the skull necklace. “What’s all this?” he asks, reaching out and taking the box from Noct. It’s quite heavy, actually.

“Dad’s gift to us. Prompto and Gladio too. Fatigues.” Noct disappears into his bedroom and emerges with a box of his own. “Dunno how he got the styles so well.” He pulls the box open and lifts out a short sleeved jacket. It’s black, as are the rest of the contents of the box, from what Ignis can see. Noct turns it to face Ignis, and there’s a pleased light in his eyes. “Cool, right?”

Ignis takes a moment to look at the jacket and at its myriad skulls embossed on zippers and pockets. “Cool,” he agrees. “Though not exactly my style.”

Noct snorts, “Of course not. Open yours; I wanna see.”

“Fine.” Ignis carefully pulls at the end of the silvery ribbon on his own box, letting it come slowly undone. He sets it aside for later; he has a penchant for collecting things like this, though he isn’t quite sure why. Then, with infinite caution, he grasps the edges of the box’s lid and eases it open to reveal the uniform inside.

“Oh,” Ignis says softly, because, well. It’s perfect.

The shirt is a pale gold, printed faintly with something that suggests the markings of a coeurl. It’s impossibly soft under Ignis’s fingers, made of some expensive fabric that’s luxurious while incredibly utilitarian; it’ll work well in the heat that Ignis has heard awaits them in parts of Lucis. Ignis runs the fabric between his fingers for a few blissful moments before his curiosity gets the better of him and he moves on to the jacket that Lucis’s tailors have prepared for him. It’s a mixture of light leather and sturdy fabric like Noct’s, but white as Noct’s is black. It’s longer than a regular suit jacket, from what he can see when he holds it up, and it’s cut to slant up from his hips and cross his chest until the sides overlap just below his neckline. It’s held in place with simple golden clasps.

Still in the box, lying atop a pair of white slacks, a pair of golden gloves waits for him. Ignis admires them for a moment, then moves into action.

He shoulders out of his regular blazer and tries on the jacket; it fits perfectly. He reaches up and fastens the golden clasps that hold it closed across his chest. When he whirls to look in the nearest mirror, he’s immediately stricken by how much different he looks. All of his wardrobe in Lucis has been ceremonial and functional; this is practical in an entirely different way. The jacket evokes the lethal grace of Tenebraen uniforms; Ignis thinks distantly of Ravus, going off to fight his enemies’ war.

Well, he always did wish he could look like his older brother.

He turns and holds his arms out, facing Noct. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

Noct watches him with wide, dark eyes. “Looks great,” he rasps. “Fits great, Specs.  _ Gods.” _

Ignis smiles. “Do you think so?” The blasphemy, mild as it is, sends a thrill down his spine.

“I wouldn’t lie, dude.” Noct picks at a button on his own uniform. “Can’t wait ‘till Prompto picks his up. Gladio has his already, of course, since he’s proper Crownsguard. We have to be wearing them as soon as we leave the city. We’ll look like proper soldiers, don’t you think?”

Ignis blinks at him. That word sounds entirely incongruous with everything Noct should stand for. Despite it, his mind echoes with a reminder of the warrior kings of old, and the Oracles who stood by their sides and let them break the world in the name of the gods. “Soldiers,” he repeats.

Noct grins. “Just like in the games. Just like the Glaives. We can get outside the Wall for once. And hey, maybe we can rough up a few MTs on the way out. It’ll be fun.”

“Yes,” Ignis says faintly. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The lie feels heavy in his mouth.

But he’s doing this for Noct, and he’s doing this for Lunafreya. Knowing that he’ll see her soon - that’s enough. It is. It is.


	3. leide.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip doesn't begin as planned, and Ignis has a Bad Day.

Of course this had to happen.

Ignis digs his feet into the cracked rubble of the highway and forces himself to take another step forward. The Regalia is refusing to move another foot unless they make her do it themselves. They’re all taking turns steering or pushing the car down the long, agonizingly hot stretch of highway in the middle of Leide towards the service station Noct insists is waiting for them. Apparently, his father’s old war companion owns the repair shop there. Ignis can’t imagine why someone would willingly set up shop in the middle of a place like this. It’s miserably dry and too hot for comfort.

Though, he supposes, it seems that this is a common place for cars to break down, so maybe it’s just good business practice.

This really isn’t the best beginning for a road trip.

Gods, if he’d gone with Cor, this wouldn’t have happened.

Or maybe Cor has a bad car too. He can’t rule it out. He’s only ever seen the Marshal in a Crown-issue government vehicle. Maybe he has an old classic car like the Regalia that chooses to break down in the middle of this godsforsaken desert.

He’d thought that the mechanical capabilities of His Majesty’s prized car would be in top shape. It seems, though, that taking the Regalia out of Insomnia and into Lucis has reminded the classic car of just how old it really is. Ignis is almost tempted to leave the car on the side of the road while some of them go for help. After all, there are plenty of old husks of vehicles out here to keep the Regalia company. But Ignis would rather not abandon His Majesty’s parting gift for a single moment, especially in the world outside the Wall, with the way that Noct carefully handles the doors even while pushing the Regalia. Yes, the car means too much to leave behind with someone to watch it. They have to push it.

Crownsguard training really didn’t include the finer arts of car pushing. Still, it’s nothing more than steering or exerting oneself, depending on the rotation they’re on. It’s a hilarious thing to see, though. Ignis chuckles to himself, imagining the spectacle they must make to passersby. If only these Lucians knew they were passing by the crown princes of not one but two nations, a nobleman, and a trained warrior. He’s lucky that some of the Messengers haven’t deigned to come to their aid just yet, or they’d make an odd picture indeed.

“What’s so funny?” Gladio asks wearily.

Ignis blinks down at him. It’s Gladio’s turn to steer the car, and Ignis is holding on tightly to the door beside him, forcing the Regalia to move along. He flicks his hair out of his face, grimacing when it refuses to budge from where it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat. “Just thinking about how ridiculous we must look.”

“Not feeling very princely?” Gladio asks, grinning up at him. “Y’know, the con of wearing anything other than black is that we can see when you sweat. Kinda ruins the illusion of perfection.”

“Was it not obvious enough already?” Ignis snaps past gritted teeth, pushing the Regalia further along. While it’s true that his fine white jacket is folded in the backseat of the Regalia, he’s not necessarily ashamed of how he looks. The gold shirt is well-made enough that it wicks away the worst of his sweat in this miserable heat, but...yes. He’s visibly sweating. It’s not his preferred look.

“You look - _fuck_ \- rugged, Iggy!” Prompto calls from the back of the Regalia in between gasping breaths. The poor kid has his hands splayed across the shining metal of the car’s rear end, practically doubled over it in his efforts to push. He doesn’t look quite so good either, but at least his clothes look pristine. Mostly. The dust they’re kicking up sticks to him where he’s sweated through his shirt.

Ignis offers him a wink over his shoulder. “Much appreciated, Prompto.”

Prompto winks back, but his grin turns swiftly into a grimace, and he groans, “Can we switch yet?”

“We just did,” Noct mutters, breaking his silence from the other side of the car. “Suck it up.”

“Are we close, Noct?” Ignis asks.

Noct tosses his head up to look Ignis in the eye. There’s a very unique kind of desperation there that goes beyond being tired. “Ask Gladio,” he says. “He’s got the phone.”

“Gladio?”

“Still a bit to go,” Gladio says, and he leans forward in the seat, squinting out at the horizon. “Might be a mirage, but I’m really hoping that’s the sign up ahead.”

“If you’re lying…” Ignis warns, but he doesn’t have the energy to bother finishing the threat.

“I’ll help you kill him myself, Specs.”

“My thanks, Noct.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Ever charming, Gladiolus. Care to switch?”

Noct drones, once more, “We just switched.”

“You know, Noct, just ‘cause you’re the future king doesn’t mean you can boss us around.”

“Prompto, that’s exactly what it means.”

“Ignis, make him stop!”

“I have no power over him,” Ignis reminds him, and he pauses to pour his full exertion into shoving the Regalia forward another few paces. “If anything, we’re equals.”

“Oracle wins,” Gladio says. “And you’re technically ruler of your nation too.”

Ignis accepts that with a little nod. “Well, you’re not _wrong,_ Gladio, but-”

“Less talking,” Noct growls, “and more pushing.”

“Aw, Princess, you’re just mad that you’re not in charge.”

“Shut up. I’m in charge of _you.”_

“But not the group.”

“Guys!” Prompto wails from the back of the car. “Can we _please_ switch?”

“We just switched,” the rest of them chorus as one.

Prompto groans, and Gladio chuckles, and even Noct cracks a smile. That puts a little more effort behind their pushing, at least for the time being, and the Regalia gains a little bit of momentum as they urge her down the burning-hot highway. Gods, it’s really, truly hot. Ignis doesn’t think the sun has ever felt quite so intense in all his life.

Despite it all, Ignis can’t help but smile.

By the time they make it to Hammerhead, they might as well have been walking through a sauna for all that their sweat has made _everything_ damp. Everything. This kind of thing never happened in Insomnia.

Prompto flops onto the ground, and Noct collapses as well. Ignis contemplates going to grab some water or perhaps procuring it from the armiger, but he’s not inclined to leave the Regalia behind after they’ve dragged it all this way. Or pushed. The semantics aren’t important.

Ignis leans over and pulls his jacket from the backseat, turning it over in his hands. In this sunlight, at least, Ignis is pleased that his uniform is white and deflects the worst of the heat. The dust diminishes that triumph somewhat, but he’ll take what he can get.

He looks over at Noct, gesturing with the jacket. “Should I-”

Noct shrugs. “I don’t think anyone is really gonna care.”

Ignis frowns. “Ah. Yes.” He puts the jacket back. This is Lucis. _Real_ Lucis. They haven’t seen a prince or king for thirty years out here; they won’t care how a few young guys look after pushing their car through the desert heat. It’s almost pleasant, really, to think about how they’re almost anonymous. Almost. There’s no hiding the naturally militant way in which Gladio holds himself, or the near-obscene amount of skulls on the uniforms of Ignis’s comrades. Ignis’s accent is a dead giveaway anyway, though whether it’s to his Crown City upbringing or Tenebraen origins is anyone’s guess.

He opts to stay quiet.

It’s for the best, apparently, because that’s when a young woman with a bright smile and a brighter outfit comes sauntering up to them, half-scolding, “Y’all kept a girl waiting!”

“Are you Cid?” Prompto asks, eyes wide.

The woman laughs and shakes her head, golden curls bouncing against her cheeks. “I’m Cindy. Cid’s my Paw-Paw, but we get the job done together.” She raises a hand to tap a finger contemplatively against her cheek. “If we’re doing introductions...Which one’s the prince?”

Ignis almost raises his hand, but he stops himself just in time. Gladio gives him a sidelong glance, but he doesn’t say anything. Noct’s the one who pops up from where he’s collapsed behind the Regalia, scowling over at Cindy.

To her credit, Cindy takes it in stride - or maybe she was expecting this. She smiles. “Aha!” She heads over to him, still grinning. “Prince Noctis!”

“That’s me.”

“Congrats on your wedding!”

Noct shrugs. “Not hitched just yet.”

“Still, it’ll be a big thing! That Lady Lunafreya is the sister of the Oracle an’ all...I hear he’s still in the Crown City. You seen him?”

Noct frowns. “Sometimes.”

Gladio’s face becomes intimately acquainted with his palm.

Cindy’s eyes widen. “So it’s true that y’all have him in there!”

Gladio takes the opportunity to sidle past Noct, slinging an arm over his shoulders and steadfastly ignoring Noct’s indignant noises. “I’m sure the Oracle is very excited to see his sister, wherever he is.”

Ignis keeps silent. Gladio has this handled.

“Cagey,” Cindy teases, but there’s no malice in her smile, and her eyes shine. “You Crown City folk like your secrets.”

“Privacy, more like,” Gladio suggests.

“If that’s how you want to play it, then sure. Go on and get some air while I take a look at the old girl,” she encourages.

“I’ll stick around,” Gladio replies. He looks at the rest of them. “Just don’t set the place on fire without me, yeah?”

Noct waves a hand lazily and walks away without another word. Prompto skips off after him.

Ignis wanders away to inspect the fuel pumps. He’s not seen a model this old in his entire life, probably. Insomnia always had the newest technology as soon as it was available, especially in the governmental sector of the city. Besides, there’d always been attendants to fill the tank for him. Ignis supposes he’ll have to ask Cindy for tips if he wants to blend in as a proper Lucian.

Prompto calls something from the little convenience store that sounds very curiously like _Ebony,_ and Ignis starts thinking that this road trip may turn out well after all.

Those hopes, however, are quickly dashed.

“Ignis,” Prompto says, sidling over to him. “Ignis.”

Ignis glances over at him. “Something the matter?”

Prompto’s creased eyebrows certainly suggest as much. He leans in close and asks, very quietly, “Weird question, but, uh...What’s a gil?”

“A gil?” Ignis repeats. He frowns. “It’s-” He stops.

Prompto groans. “Not very reassuring.”

“No, I know what it is: it’s a unit of currency. I apologize; you just caught me off guard. I haven’t heard mention of a gil since-” He stops.

“Since…?”

Ignis lets out a soft little laugh. It doesn’t feel happy, though. “Well, since Tenebrae.”

“Oh.” Prompto frowns. “So, uh. I’m guessing that it’s an imperial thing.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Prompto swears.

“Prompto!” Ignis says, incredulous. “You’re representing the crown!”

“They don’t even use the same currency as the crown out here. I don’t think they’ll mind if I say one word.”

Ignis rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses out of the way. “This is not going according to plan,” he groans, shutting his eyes. He has no idea how they’re to deal with this. They were supposed to drive straight to Galdin Quay, camping along the way. A proper road trip for a few Crown City citizens. Paying for things was never quite in the agenda.

Noct chooses that exact moment to walk over to them. “Hey.”

“Hey, buddy,” Prompto greets him, voice tight.

Ignis opens one eye to look at him. “Hello, Noct,” he says, not even bothering to hide his distress.

“What’s the matter?” Noct asks, voice immediately concerned.

“We may or may not have any money,” Prompto says. He grimaces. “Leaning more towards may not. More like…really not.”

Noct’s eyes widen. He looks sharply over at Ignis. “What the hell?” he asks.

“It seems that we may have overlooked the fact that Lucis is occupied by Niflheim,” Ignis explains, holding his hands up in a vague surrender. “Unfortunately for us, that means that we have little usable funds.”

“...And our car’s broken down,” Noct finishes.

Ignis nods. “Right you are.”

“Hey, prince!”

Cindy’s heading back over to them with Gladio at her side.

Prompto swears again. Ignis considers joining him.

Noct elbows Prompto sharply. “Be cool!”

“I’m _so_ cool-”

“Shut up!”

“Everything okay?” Cindy asks, halting in front of them.

Prompto grins in a way that looks almost painful to Ignis. “Great!” he says.

Gladio waves a little ticket in the air. “Cid gave us a quote for the repairs. He really, uh, put us in our place a bit.”

“Paw-Paw’s just testing you. He knows His Majesty’s got the gil to spare.” She grins. “Right?”

“You need a deposit, I suppose?” Ignis asks weakly. He looks towards Gladio and hopes that his eyes convey the sheer force of his distress. Gladio’s eyebrows rise up a little bit, so maybe the silent communication worked.

Cindy nods.

“What do we do?” Prompto hisses in Noct’s ear.

Noct bites at his lip, glancing from Cindy to the Regalia and back again. “...Gladio?” he asks at last, voice small.

Gladio rolls his eyes, but he steps forward, smiling. “Cindy, I hate to ask, but we’re kinda low on gil at the moment. Would you be able to help us out with that?”

Cindy grins. “I see. How’s this: you do me a favor, and I’ll make sure Paw-Paw doesn’t find out that I’m giving you this.” She digs into one of the pockets of her pants and pulls out a handful of shining coins. She holds her hand out expectantly, quirking an eyebrow up. “We have a deal?”

Noct reaches his hand out to take the gil, but Gladio catches his wrist and asks, “A favor?”

“Bit o’ work. They teach you how to fight, don’t they?”

“Of course.”

“Take out some varmints for us then, would you?” Cindy places her other hand on her hip. “Nothing too bad. Just some reapertails that’ve been giving us trouble. Can we count on you?”

Gladio smiles and takes the gil from Cindy’s hand. “A prince’s word is his bond,” he tells her.

“I sure hope so.” With a wink, Cindy saunters off.

Prompto gapes after her. “She’s so nice to us,” he sighs.

“Pick your jaw off the ground, Prompto, c’mon.” Gladio frowns down at the gil shifting them around in his palm.

Noct leans towards him to peer down at the money. “This isn’t a lot,” he declares.

“You’ve never seen a gil in your life, Noct. How do you know how much they’re worth?”

“Just guessing. I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said-”

“May I see one?” Ignis asks quietly.

Gladio flicks one over to him; it shines in the midday sun as it goes. “Don’t spend it all in one place, princess.”

“Gladio, please,” Ignis mutters, cheeks suddenly flaming. He ducks his head and turns the coin over in his fingers, studying it. It’s been ages since he’s had a gil in his hands. The look is mostly the same, if a little worn by time and use out here in Leide. One side bears the face of Emperor Aldercapt, and the other depicts the spires of Gralea. Ignis can hardly believe that a man with a face so kind could commit the atrocities that Niflheim does. He can hardly believe that this man would order the murder of his mother and the destruction of his home.

But this is an old coin, after all.

Ignis frowns at the young face of the emperor and flips the coin back over. Gralea is neutral enough that it doesn’t make his heart burn with something like hate. He stares at the tiny spires and tries to imagine how Ravus must have felt when Aldercapt summoned him there. Had his brother been afraid?

Fingers snap in front of his face.

“What in the-” Ignis jerks his head up and scowls at Gladio. “What?”

Gladio makes a quick grimace of apology and says, “Company.”

Ignis turns, and - oh. He knows this man from King Regis’s photographs and old news stories. This is Cid Sophiar, albeit older. The clothes are the same, though. He’s walking up to them with a unique sort of scowl. It makes Ignis think that this man would fit right in alongside King Regis: just the right amount of standoffish.

“Prince Noctis.” Cid looks at Noct, blatantly taking in the full extent of his appearance. “Prince. Like they took your old man and kicked the dignity out of him.”

Noct’s expression doesn’t change. “You must be Cid.”

“Been expecting you. You got a long way to go, son. And that slack jaw’s gettin’ you nowhere fast. And you. You must be Clarus’s boy.” Cid squints and leans closer to Gladio. “He let you get that damned eagle all over?”

Gladio looks down at himself and shrugs. The dark lines of his tattoo are shining in the heat. “He wasn’t thrilled about the size.”

“I’ll bet he wasn’t. I’m not so hot about it either.” He turns to Prompto, raising a tufted silver brow at him. “And you’re...the friend?”

“Crownsguard,” Noct corrects before Prompto can say anything. “He’s a trained Crownsguard.”

Cid huffs. “You ever seen a battle, Crownsguard?”

Prompto rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh. Not yet. Sir.”

“Then you ain’t a Crownsguard yet.”

That leaves Prompto sputtering and Noct rolling his eyes. Noct grabs Prompto’s wrist and drags him away, muttering, “C’mon, we need to talk to Cindy anyway.”

Gladio shoots Ignis an apologetic look and says, “I gotta make sure they don’t set the place on fire.”

“They’d better not.”

“They won’t...Cid? Do I call you Cid?”

“Ain’t nobody called me Master Sophiar in years, so.” Cid glares up at Gladio. “But only because you’re Clarus’s kid.”

Gladio smiles, but Ignis can see the way it’s strained around the edges. “Right.” He gives Ignis another look, shrugs, and quietly slips off on Prompto and Noct’s trail. The gods know that the two of them will need all the help they can get if they’re talking to Cindy.

Cid turns to him. Gruffly, he asks, “And you are?”

“Ignis,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Ignis...?”

“Oh. Ignis Scientia.” He nearly stumbles over it, but he muffles the instinct to name his house. The alias has a pleasant enough ring to it, he thinks.

Cid squints at him. “Named for the Oracle?”

Ignis nods. “We’re of an age, yes.”

“Pretty close age, if you ask me.”

“Well.” Ignis smiles weakly. “My parents were timely with their naming.”

Cid’s pale eyes study him for a bit longer, and Ignis nearly squirms out of view under the force of his gaze. He wonders if everyone associated with King Regis is automatically gifted with his same unnerving ability to see right through people. Finally, he grunts and says, “Wearing hell of a lot of white for a Lucian.”

Ignis holds his gaze. “I hear it’s popular outside the Wall.”

That seems to light something in Cid’s eyes, because Ignis thinks he almost laughs. “Something like that,” he admits, but his brows furrow even more. “Reggie’s making a bold move, sending his boy out with all of y’all. Making a scene.”

“We’re laying low,” Ignis assures him.

“If that’s what you’re calling it.”

“Specs,” a voice calls, and Ignis’s heart skips with relief when Noctis walks up to them, halting at Ignis’s side. “C’mon, we’ve gotta do that work for Cindy.”

“Work?” Cid asks, and his gaze slides to Noct. “The hell’s she got you doing?”

Noct, to his credit, doesn’t seem fazed by Cid’s inspection. “Just taking care of something for her. Quick errand.” He tugs at Ignis’s wrist, keeping his fingers wrapped around the skin between his glove and shirt. His touch is surprisingly cool in the midst of Leide’s heat. “We’ve gotta get going.”

“Very well,” Ignis says, and he nods to Cid. “Farewell for now, Master Cid.”

Cid looks like he might say something more, but then he just nods, waves a hand in dismissal, and heads off towards the garage, calling out a quick order about the Regalia to Cindy.

“Thought you might want an out,” Noct says as they walk away.

Ignis nods. “Thank you, Noct.”

“Eh. No problem.”

“That was close,” Ignis mutters, tugging at the buttons on his gloves. “Too close for comfort.”

“Cid wouldn’t rat you out,” Noctis assures him.

“Noct, you hardly know the man.”

“He was my dad’s friend, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t just betray that, especially not where the Oracle’s concerned.” Noct shrugs. “It helps that you’re not completely blond. They expect that from the Nox Fleurets.”

Ignis reaches up and combs through his hair, looking up to catch a glimpse of a honey-brown strand whisking through the air on the light breeze. “It does help, I suppose.”

“Luna and Ravus don’t look like you, though. Why is your hair darker than theirs?”

“My mother always used to joke that my light was all turned inward, and it left none for my hair.”

“Some, though. It’s sorta blond.”

“Small victories, then.”

“Hey, but Ravus’s hair was white. You think he doesn’t have any light in him?”

Ignis smiles at the jab. “Your logic skills are impeccable as always.” But then he frowns a bit. “No, Ravus has light in him. He always has.” He pauses, contemplating, then adds, “He’s the blood of the Oracle, after all.”

Noct raises an eyebrow. “Was a joke.”

“I’m aware.” Ignis offers up a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I wouldn’t like to break character,” Ignis says, and Noct rolls his eyes.

Gladio’s kneeling down and adjusting his uniform shoes when they approach him. He looks up, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the full force of the sun. “Ready to go?”

Noct folds his arms. “Where are we even-”

“Not far.” Gladio points across the road. “Cindy says the first ones are just down there. We can track the rest from there.”

“Tracking,” Ignis repeats. “Are we hunters now?”

“Close enough.”

“Hunters?” Prompto asks, skipping along beside them as they cross the street. It’s unusually easy to do so: there aren’t many cars on the street, despite it being a major thoroughfare of the continent. They never would have managed this in Insomnia.

“The hunters are similar to the Crownsguard, but they’re something of a civilian outfit,” Ignis explains. He vaults over the fence at the other end of the street, landing in hard-packed earth that kicks up dust around his feet. “They protect the citizens in lieu of the Wall.”

“Oh.”

“Hey. See that?” Noct asks, and he points down the slope to a flat expanse where several large insect-like creatures are gathered. “Those look like reapertails to me.”

Well, the tails of the things certainly look like they live up to their name. “Our first targets,” Ignis purrs, and he summons his daggers. This won’t be so bad. These things aren’t terribly big. They can take them on.

Gladio flexes his arms, stalking forward, and his greatsword materializes in his hands with a sparkling, lethal grace. “Let’s go.”

Noct draws his engine blade beside Ignis, startlingly loud in the calm desert air. The low engine rumble sounds more like a gunshot than a blade, fierce and terrifying. One of the reapertails turns towards them, clicking its claws together. It seems like the element of surprise has been ruined. Noct must realize it too, because he winds up, throws the engine blade with a feral yell, and bursts into sparks.

The blade sinks into the reapertail’s carapace at the exact moment that Noct reappears, and the creature makes an unholy clacking sound, swinging its tail to attempt to catch Noct with the stinging end. Prompto draws his gun and shoots off the tail tip with a whoop of triumph, and that’s when the rest of the reapertails swing into action. Gladio and Prompto and Ignis leap forward as well, and that’s how their first proper fight begins.

One of the creatures tries to strike at Noct, but Gladio’s there in a heartbeat, summoning his shield so that the stinging tail glances harmlessly off the gilded steel. Gladio ducks out of the way of another one, using the momentum to swing his greatsword as he comes out of the dodge, catching the claw arm and cutting it clean off. The creature chatters with its ugly mandibles and skitters away, but not before lashing out with a barbed tail. It’s Noct’s turn to save Gladio, and he trades his blade for a spear, swiping it through the air with a sharp crack as it pierces the tail, disabling it for the moment.

A reapertail lunges at Ignis, clicking furiously. Ignis bends backwards, stepping out of its path as it rushes past him through the air. It whirls after it’s landed, and Ignis is sure that is horrible insect creatures could have emotions, this one would be absolutely livid. Ignis tosses his hair out of his face with a huff, flipping a dagger in his grip so that one is in a reverse grip, and he braces for another attack.

Prompto slides past him in the dirt and fires off a shot, grinning up at Ignis from the dirt when his aim proves true. “Ignis, all business!”

Ignis snorts, but he indulges the rhyme all the same. He doesn’t have time to retort, though, because that’s the exact moment when the reapertail notices his distraction and lunges to attack him once more. Ignis grunts as it impacts his shoulder, knocking him backwards to land gracelessly in the dirt. He cries out and rolls away, but one of the creature’s legs pins him where he lies, keeping him captive.

With his free arm, Ignis adjusts his grip on his dagger and lashes out, striking at the smooth carapace of the creature’s underbelly. His blade skitters off harmlessly and the reapertail chatters down at him.

“Iggy!” he hears from somewhere far away. He hardly registers the noise, like he’s somehow under water.

The reapertail is surprisingly heavy. It keeps him from drawing in breath, and every one of its pointed legs digs into his skin, holding him down.

He reaches up and aims, focusing on the center of the reapertail’s horrifying face. If he strikes between the eyes, he can do it. Right there. Right there, and he can protect himself. Right there, and he can kill-

He can kill it.

Ignis stares up at the reapertail in horror.

He can’t do it.

He can’t do it.

His aim falters.

“Iggy!”

A new shadow crosses his vision: the massive stinger and tail of the reapertail rise up from behind, curving towards his face. The creature clicks down at him with blood-red mandibles, insect eyes glinting with malice, and Ignis lets it happen.

The tail descends.

Ignis holds on tightly to his daggers, though his hands are shaking, and he prays.

He’s covered in a shower of ichor as a blade pierces through the reapertail’s carapace. The reapertail makes another horrible, rattling cry, and it twitches around the blade before falling limp.

The reapertail is pushed roughly to the side, letting the sunlight stream back onto his face. Ignis lets it happen. His hands won’t stop shaking, and his breath comes to him in short, panicked bursts. He didn’t do anything. He wasn’t able to do _anything._

And then Noct is looking down at him.

“Ignis,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Ignis blinks. “I-”

Noct drops his engine blade and reaches down, offering a hand to Ignis. “Here.” He pulls Ignis to his feet, not quite letting Ignis out of his space. “That was close.”

Gladio strides up to them, banishing his greatsword and kicking a carcass out of the way as he goes. “Iggy, what the hell?”

Ignis looks down at his hands, watching the daggers glitter out of existence now that his concentration is wavering. “I-”

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“I- I couldn’t-”

Gladio grabs him by the shoulders. “Look at me,” he demands. When Ignis shakes his head, stammering, his voice goes softer. “I need to make sure you’re okay, Iggy. C’mon.”

Ignis looks up into Gladio’s eyes. He hardly registers the concern in his gaze. He can’t focus on anything but the blood rushing in his ears. There are dead things on the ground around them. They killed them. Every fiber of his being resists the sight of all of the corpses surrounding him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“What happened?” Gladio asks.

“I couldn’t do it,” Ignis murmurs. “To take the life of others...”

Gladio frowns. “It’s a necessary sacrifice,” he says.

“Not for me.” Ignis clenches his fists and wishes for his daggers.

“But your training-”

“Is training. I was ill-prepared for the reality of combat.” Ignis hangs his head. He can see Noct out of the corner of his eye, edging closer and banishing the sword that saved Ignis from a painful end. Gods, maybe Regis was right: he should have gone with Cor. At least then he wouldn’t be putting Noct in danger with his inadequacy. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “It won’t happen again.”

“Stop apologizing,” Noct says roughly.

Ignis nods quickly. “Of course.”

“You’re doing fine,” Gladio assures him. “This was everyone’s first real battle, right?”

Ignis nods again, staring up at Gladio. “Right,” he agrees.

“Then we’re all learning. You take your time.”

Prompto claps him on the back. “And hey, no people. If there’s ever a person that we need to get through, you can bow out. No judgment.”

“I’ll bow out,” Ignis promises. He looks between the three of them; he’s not quite sure he likes the way they’re looking at him. Their gazes feel like pity. He bites at his lip and strides off in the direction of their next target. “We’re wasting time.”

He doesn’t miss the worried look that Gladio and Prompto exchange before running to follow him.

“Hey,” Noct says, catching up to him. He keeps pace with Ignis, lowering his voice. “Really, though. If you want to hang back while we do the killing-”

“No,” Ignis interrupts. He follows it up with a smile, though, to remove the bite from the word, even if he really does just want to snap. “No, I’m afraid I’d be a rather poor excuse for a Crownsguard if I didn’t do any guarding.”

Noct studies him closely, furrowing his brow. “You’re the Oracle first,” he says. “Remember that.”

“I never would.” As if the Messengers would let him. As if he hadn’t just thrown away seven years of military training at the most crucial moment. No, he is the Oracle, and he’s not likely to forget it anytime soon.

They take down two more groups of reapertails and two packs of sabertusks before they’re through. They end up finding a hunter named Dave who asks them to take down something called a bloodhorn. The name alone gives Ignis chills.

Gladio frowns up at the sky. “We’ve done a lot today. We should get some rest before taking this thing down.”

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. “The sun’s going down.”

“I suppose we should find a place to make camp,” Ignis says. He shivers again despite the heat. When he looks down at his forearms, every hair is standing on end. He frowns. “A haven, perhaps. His Majesty said they’d be scattered about the land. They’re safe at night, though I can’t imagine what from.”

“Animals, probably,” Prompto says. “And - wait, Ignis, dude, are you cold?”

“Only a bit.”

“It’s boiling out here,” Gladio says incredulously. “How can you be cold?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

Tentatively, Noct reaches out and clasps his hands around Ignis’s arms. “You’re so cold,” he says softly. “Like, your skin. It’s freezing.”

Ignis grimaces. He doesn’t like the way that Noct’s eyes have gone wide with worry. Looking around, he sees the same expression from all of them. “I’m fine,” he assures them. “Truly.”

“On the bright side,” Prompto suggests, “we can store all the vegetables with him. They won’t go bad.”

“Hilarious, Prompto.”

“You love it, Ignis.”

“But of course.”

“Let the vegetables go bad,” Noct grumbles. He lets go of Ignis and jerks his head in the direction of a haven they’d found on the map earlier. In the distance, faintly blue smoke curls up in an already-glowing wisp, bright against the encroaching night. “C’mon.”

Ignis ignores the chill and pushes on.

There’s a unique sort of charm to camping, he thinks. Maybe it’s the togetherness, or the fresh air, or the way that the only sounds they can hear are distant wildlife and the rush of the wind. He sets up the cookfire and utensils quietly, enjoying the easy rhythm of arranging his work station. He sets about making a simple dish for their first night on the road, hoping that the local ingredients will still allow him to create the tastes of Insomnia. Gladio sets up the tent they’ll share, and Noct and Prompto do something approximating setting up the chairs. There’s more picture-taking than Ignis thought the task would entail.

Dinner is comfortably eaten around the fire. The four of them didn’t often get the chance to sit down together as a group in Insomnia, so this is a welcome change. Ignis almost wishes that the road trip would last longer than just the venture to Galdin Quay and then Altissia. It might bring them all closer together before everything changes.

He doesn’t say as much but, well, he thinks it.

He makes the mistake of venturing past the runes after the sun has gone down. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a bush he’d read about that might yield some Leiden peppers, and he leaves the glowing circle of the runes.

The moment he does, every part of him goes cold.

It’s not the comforting icy chill of his covenant: it’s the freezing panic of drowning in winter seas, or the sharp pain of loneliness.

All around him, from every corner of his mind, inescapable in the dead of night, Ignis sees the cold, oily darkness rising to meet him. And inside him, the golden light of his calling burns in retaliation, and it cries out _heal-_

“Oh,” Ignis says matter-of-factly, swaying on his feet. “Oh, this is terrible.”

He collapses.

_“Ignis!”_

Though the sound of Noct’s voice is welcome, it shoots pain into his throbbing head, setting his mind afire.

“Noct,” he murmurs, and he tries to stagger to his hands and knees. He can hardly control his trembling muscles.

“Ignis, _fuck,_ this shit again?” Noct’s at his side, scrambling over the edge of the haven to land by his head. He carefully bends and pulls Ignis’s head into his lap, cradling him. Ignis squints up at him with half-lidded eyes, shivering. Noct stares down at him, eyes wide, before turning to call over his shoulder, “Could use some help, guys!”

“I’m fine,” Ignis protests weakly.

Noct makes a soft, pained noise. “I really don’t believe you,” he tells Ignis.

“That’s fair, I suppose.”

In the darkness, something bubbles and roars in an unholy timbre, and Ignis whimpers.

“Ignis-”

“It’s the runes,” Ignis rasps. “I need to be within the runes.” He’s not quite sure how he knows that, but he craves the comforting warmth of the campfire. Again, his heart begs him to _heal,_ but he shakes the thought loose with another violent shudder. He’s so cold.

“Soon, Ignis, I promise - Gladio, here-”

“Goddamn, Iggy,” Gladio rumbles quietly, stooping at Ignis’s side. When did he get here? “This isn’t your day.”

Ignis blinks slowly over at him and admits, “I suppose not.”

“Let’s get you where it’s safe.” Gladio slowly slides his arms underneath Ignis’s knees and back, lifting him into a bridal carry. “Thought this was Noct’s wedding,” he jibes, but his tone belies his distress.

“We make fine competition,” Ignis says faintly. He realizes distantly that Noct is holding on to one of his hands. Despite the darkness weighing on his mind, he musters the strength to squeeze Noct’s fingers a bit. His hand is warm; Ignis chases the comfort. “I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see,” Gladio says, slowly walking up the spiraling ramp to the haven proper.

The moment they cross within the protection of the runes, the darkness flees from his consciousness, hissing as it goes. Ignis’s body warms immediately, and he sighs at the relief. He’s still shaking, and his muscles resist any attempts to move in Gladio’s arms, but the worst of it is locked away beyond the runes. Something roars again from beyond some boulders, and this time Ignis is unafraid.

Gladio settles him into one of the camping chairs. “I’m gonna get a blanket,” he murmurs to Noct. “He’s freezing.”

“Yeah,” Noct replies, not even looking at Gladio. He’s still holding on tightly to Ignis’s hand.

“Prompto.”

Ignis hadn’t even realized that Prompto had appeared. But there he is, crouching at Ignis’s side, pulling a bottle from the armiger in a shower of sparks. He passes it wordlessly to Noct.

Roughly, Noct says, “Here.”

Before Ignis can protest, something is being shattered against his chest, and when he looks down, the shards of an ether are shimmering out of existence against his chest. He scowls despite the immediate relief. “You shouldn’t have used that on me.”

“If it helped, then yeah, I should have.” Noct raises his chin and looks down at him imperiously. For once, he looks like a proper prince. “Gonna argue?”

“I suppose not.”

“Good.” Noct drops down to flop gracelessly onto the stone of the haven at Ignis’s feet. “You dropped your glasses when you fell.”

“Did I?” Ignis reaches up and pats haphazardly at his face. “Oh. It seems I have. I hadn’t noticed.”

“You were busy, in your defense.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Ignis grins wryly. He holds his hand out expectantly. “Are they broken?”

Noct places them obediently in his hand. “Not that I could see. If anything, maybe the frames are bent.”

“Easily fixed,” Ignis mutters, fiddling with the wire arm on one side. “If I used a bit of fire…”

“You’re not using magic,” Noct tells him firmly.

“But the ether-”

“Got you back on your feet. Just rest for once.”

“Noct-”

“No.” Noct frowns. “Just...for once, Ignis, listen to me.”

Ignis tilts his head to the side. “Fine. But I need to go sit.” He stands shakily, still clutching the blanket around his shoulders. It’s quite warm here by the fire, but he likes the comfort the blanket offers.

“You were just sitting,” Noct protests.

“Elsewhere,” Ignis snaps, and he trudges to the edge of the haven.

“Ignis…”

“Noct.”

For a moment, there’s silence, and then from behind him, hardly audible over the crackle of the flames, Noct says, “Fine. I’ll be here.”

Ignis nods shortly, though he’s not quite sure if Noct sees. He makes it to the curved stone edge of the haven, surrounded by glowing runes, and settles himself down, letting his feet hang over the edge. He wraps his blanket around himself even tighter and tries to ignore the tremors in his bones.

 _Gentiana,_ he begs. _I need your guidance._

The crickets chirp beyond the haven.

Ignis bows his head. “Gentiana,” he says aloud this time, quietly. “Anyone. I’m confused.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m scared.”

Silence.

There’s not even the bark of a dog. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Ignis sighs. Has he made the right choice by leaving the Wall? Should he have left Noct’s side?

Maybe the gods are angry with him. Maybe he’s put a wrench in their plans.

He’s not quite sure how long he sits there, begging for guidance. The gods don’t seem intent on sending him any messages to explain the frightening chills and impending darkness that the night brings, and his heart only whispers at him to _heal._ Ignis tugs at the fabric of his gloves and wishes he could go to a training room to let out this pent-up energy.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts when something scuffles along behind him. “Whatcha doing?” Prompto asks, settling in beside Ignis along the glowing lines of the runes.

Ignis opens an eye to glance sidelong at him. “Praying.”

“Oh.” Prompto reddens. “Should I go?”

“No,” Ignis sighs, and he opens both eyes. “I was just finishing up.” It seems that nothing is working tonight. He stares out at the wide landscape below them, trying to bring himself back into the present moment.

“Feeling any better?”

“A bit shaken,” Ignis admits, “though I find that I’m fine as long as I stay within the runes.”

“Still cold?”

“The fire helps, and the weather is warm. This is probably the best place to experience what nighttime feels like outside the Wall.”

“Yeah, I hear Niflheim’s freezing sometimes.”

Ignis inclines his head. “The Glacian’s corpse rests there, yes.”

“But you think this is gonna go away? You’re not gonna keep going catatonic at night?” There’s genuine concern in Prompto’s voice. Ignis can’t help but feel a bit flattered.

“I’ll get used to it; I’m sure of it. This is merely a small obstacle that I didn’t expect to encounter.” Ignis gestures out at the world beyond the runes. “I never considered how I would react to feeling a world unprotected by the Oracle after so long within the Wall. I’m sure it won’t cripple me forever.”

“If you say so.”

Ignis smiles at him. “I know so,” he promises.

Prompto grins. “You know, it still blows my mind,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“That I’m friends with the Oracle. Like, _the_ Oracle. Who’d have thought it?”

Ignis suggests, “Perhaps the same people who thought you’d be friends with the crown prince of Lucis.”

That makes Prompto laugh a little nervously. “The gods, probably,” he says.

“Do you believe in the gods, Prompto?”

Prompto shrugs. He reaches down and traces his finger along one of the grooves in the rock where the runes of protection glow blue. For a moment, it almost looks like he winces, but it’s no more than a passing glimpse, and Prompto meets his eyes with uncharacteristic solemnity. “I mean, they’re supposed to be sleeping, right? It’s hard to get proof of them when they’re asleep somewhere. But you’re here, and you seem to believe in them.” He shrugs again, and his lips twist into a more familiar smile. “Besides, if I didn’t believe even a little bit after seeing the stuff that Noct can do, then I’d be stupid.”

Ignis smiles, and he nods. “Well said,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to know what others think of the gods.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Ignis makes a quick gesture with his hands, trying to find the right words. “Only the devout care enough to visit the Oracle, and the Lucian kings rule by divine right. Under a theocracy, it is often difficult to find those who find the gods to be little more than bedtime stories.”

“Oh.” Prompto sits back, frowning out at the darkened world beyond the haven. “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

Ignis shrugs and is privately smug about the fact that he can. There are no tutors here; he will express himself as he pleases. “The Oracle is one of a kind,” he says. “It’s bound to be a lonely undertaking.”

“Lonely enough to doubt them?”

“The gods?” Ignis asks.

Prompto shrugs, and his shoulders stay up, hiding the curve of his chin behind the collar of his fatigues. “I dunno. I guess. Aren’t you allowed to doubt them too?”

Ignis frowns. “Well, I suppose I’m allowed. But I’d make a poor excuse for an Oracle if I did.” In the few dark days between the fall of Tenebrae and his arrival in Insomnia, the gods had been curiously silent. He’d doubted them then, though he doesn’t think he’d ever dare speak aloud about that. “I know their will. The Messengers tell me as much.”

“I like the Messengers,” Prompto sighs.

“I wasn’t aware you were familiar with them.” He’s never seen them in Noct’s apartment with Prompto.

Prompto’s cheeks flush. “I, uh.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask?”

“Well, they’re your friends, of course-”

“Your concept of ‘friends’ is quite different from mine, Prompto. They’re divine enforcers of the gods’ will.” Ignis watches Prompto with a small smile; when Prompto blushes an even brighter scarlet, Ignis leans over and nudges him with an elbow. “Come now, I can’t have scared you off, can I?”

“I dunno,” Prompto says. “It’s not super important.”

“Nonsense. Besides, I don’t own the rights to their time. They go where they please.”

“Yeah, I guess so. One of them came to me.”

“Oh?”

“It was, uh. Pryna,” Prompto says softly, so quietly that his words are almost lost to the wind and the crackling of the fire.

“Pryna,” Ignis repeats, and he tries his best to make it not seem like too much of a question.

“She got lost one day on her way to Noct. Got hurt somehow. I found her back when I was still...not Noct’s friend. Helped her back to health. She disappeared after that.”

Ignis nods sympathetically, though he’s trying to wrap his head around the notion of a Messenger needing the aid of a human child. “They do that.”

Prompto grins and looks up at the sky, fiddling absently with the band around his wrist. “Yeah. I missed her. But then I got a letter in the mail.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “From Pryna?”

“No!” Prompto laughs, and he elbows Ignis in the ribs. “From Luna.”

“Luna?” Ignis repeats, and his heart swoops for a moment. “She wrote to you?”

“Only once, but, uh. Yeah.” Prompto smiles wistfully. “She asked me to be a friend to Noct.”

“So it wasn’t too long ago, then.”

Prompto almost grimaces. “Actually, it was more like ten years ago.”

“But you didn’t become friends with Noct until-”

“I know what happened,” Prompto interrupts quietly.

Ignis stops and nods. “Ah. Of course.” So Prompto isn’t willing to discuss that time; that’s fine with him. “Nonetheless, I’m happy that Lunafreya found you.” He pauses, considering. “And Pryna, of course,” he adds, and he makes a mental note to pick up some more treats, if anyone sells them in Lucis proper.

“I’d like to meet her,” Prompto says, eyes shining.

“In Altissia,” Ignis suggests. “After the wedding, we’ll go back to Insomnia too. Then you can meet her for real.”

Prompto yawns, shaking himself a little bit. “It’s a deal.”

“Tired?”

“A bit.”

Ignis levers himself to his feet, looking down at Prompto. “Time for bed, I think,” he suggests.

“I won’t say no to that!” Prompto leaps to his feet and skips across the haven. He catapults himself into the tent. His entrance is immediately followed by a surprised yell from Gladio, who had evidently already set up inside.

Noct, slumped in one of the chairs, looks up from his phone. “Good talk?”

“It was,” Ignis admits. “Prompto is pleasant at conversation once he decides to commit himself to it.”

“Dude!” Prompto whines from inside the tent. There’s a faint chuckle from Gladio as well.

“To bed,” Ignis announces. “We’re all due for sleep.”

Noct rolls his eyes, but he gets up from his chair anyway and saunters towards the tent. “Your cooking put me to sleep,” he says. “I could fall asleep standing up at this point.”

“That’s the sign of a good meal.”

“Then sign me up for your catering, Ignis, damn.”

Ignis laughs and nudges Noct towards the tent. “I hope the crown will fund that. My kingdom is experiencing a deficit at the moment.”

“Insomnia’s pockets are overflowing,” Noctis intones in a nasal half-imitation of one of the Council members back in Insomnia.

Ignis snorts. “Not with gil.”

“We can work around that.” Noct ducks into the tent, already unlacing one of his boots as he goes.

“Your feet smell horrible!” Prompto yells.

“Shut up,” Gladio grumbles. When Ignis steps inside, he nearly trips over Gladio’s bulk where he’s stubbornly set himself up right in front of the entrance. “I’m tryin’ to sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t give him any delusions of grandeur, Prompto,” Ignis drawls, tugging off his jacket. “It’ll just go to his head.”

“Go to bed, Ignis.”

“Gladio, you don’t frighten me.” Ignis crawls into his sleeping bag, tugging his blanket with him. It smells like the outdoors; he finds that he quite enjoys it.

“One day,” Gladio warns good-naturedly, but he falls silent soon after.

After they’ve all settled in, Ignis finds that he can’t quite fall asleep.

Ignis and Noct are at the back of the tent; Gladio and Prompto form a barrier by the entrance. Ignis had insisted that they’d be fine, but Gladio had muttered something about safety and royalty and protection, and Ignis had known better than to stand in the way of a Shield with a mission.

Noct turns over in his sleeping bag; he makes a soft noise. For a few moments, he’s silent, but then he huffs and turns back over.

Ignis opens his eyes, staring up at the dark roof of the tent. “Can’t sleep?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Maybe.” Noct shifts in his sleeping bag. “Not sure if I want to.”

“Excited to go to Altissia tomorrow?”

“I guess.”

Gladio grunts quietly and turns over in his sleeping bag; Ignis freezes, though he’s not quite sure why he feels so much like a criminal. They’re just talking. Noct’s quiet too until Gladio settles down again.

“Still there?” he asks.

Ignis nods in the darkness. “Yes.”

“Did you see the stars?”

“A bit, as they were coming out,” Ignis admits. “Though there’s still some residual light from the Crown City that blocks out their full potential.”

“D’you think the ocean will have more?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I want to see them, Ignis.”

“You will.”

Noct shifts once again, and though his voice doesn’t change in volume, it acquires a unique softness. “Will you be there?”

“Of course,” Ignis promises.

Noct’s silent for a long time; Ignis suspects he might have fallen asleep. The quiet sounds of Leide filter in from the desert around them. It’s so quiet in comparison to Insomnia that Ignis isn’t quite sure how he’ll ever fall asleep. In the distance, nearly silenced by distance, something cries out, shrill and nearly human, and just as quickly the sound is forgotten. Finally, Noct says, “Good.”

“Good,” Ignis echoes.

“G’night,” Noct says quietly.

Ignis turns his head. The tent is dark, but even the faint moonlight that filters through the flap makes Noct’s eyes luminous. They’re open, watching him. Ignis smiles.

“Good night, Noct.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	4. the fall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis sees the truth of his fears.

Ignis feels no better and no more rested in the morning. His head still aches with the memory of the night, and his dreams were fitful things he can hardly remember. 

He sits up and briefly panics at the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He reaches out for his glasses but stumbles across a body on the way: Noct.  _ Oh.  _ Ignis breathes out a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He’s in the tent. They’re beyond the Wall. 

Ignis doesn’t bother with his jacket; it’s already far too warm out here in Leide, even though he can see the long shadows of early morning through the tent opening. He buttons up his shirt as much as he cares to, rearranges his necklace, runs another cursory hand through his hair, and tugs on his shoes. Noct is still asleep beside him, and he’s more likely than not to stay that way until someone bothers to wake him. Prompto’s dozing as well, though Ignis doesn’t expect any trouble from him. He blinks blearily up at Ignis as Ignis carefully steps over him, murmuring something that might be a greeting before rolling over and closing his eyes once more. Ignis envies him his sleep.

He rolls his head around to try to work out a kink in one of his neck muscles. He hopes they don’t have to camp any more times before they make it to Galdin Quay. Apparently, there’s a motel in Longwythe that they can stop at once they’ve gotten the Regalia back. Until then, they have these campsites, and Ignis supposes he’ll have to get used to them. Gladio likes them far too much.

The man himself is already outside, resting in one of the chairs by the campfire. He looks like he’s been up for some time; his forehead shines faintly with sweat, so he must have gone for a run already. 

“Morning,” Gladio says, raising his coffee cup in salute.

“Coffee,” Ignis rasps, dragging himself towards the fire. At least Gladio put the kettle on for hot water; with the other two members of their party asleep, there should be plenty left for Ignis.

Gladio snorts. “Charming. There’s that royal etiquette.”

Ignis scowls over at him from across the flames. Gladio looks far too chipper for someone up this early. “Like you ever gave a damn about all that.” He swipes a cup from the table where he’d left it the night before and starts making his coffee. The water is still pleasantly hot, at least, so Ignis considers that a victory.

“Did one of those reapertails crawl into your sleeping bag? You’re miserable, Iggy.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” Ignis pauses, then adds, “Apologies.”

Gladio waves one of his hands. “We all have those days.”

Ignis raises his cup in acknowledgement and settles into a chair. He stirs idly at the liquid inside for a little while, frowning out at the Leiden landscape. It’s quite pretty in the mornings, all told. If he squints, he can see dualhorns butting heads in the distance. It only serves to remind him of the task they’ve been asked to complete. He mentions as much to Gladio.

Gladio asks, “Are you up for it?”

He’d been expecting a question like this. He doesn’t blame Gladio, of course, especially not after his abysmal performance in battle yesterday, but it still brings up annoyance in the center of his chest. “I have...fewer qualms,” Ignis says carefully, “but I refuse to kill another creature. Not right now.”

“So what’ll you do?”

“Whatever I can, if it means keeping the rest of you safe.” There are other things he can do. He’s good at observing and strategizing; his tutors always told him that a good ruler knows their enemy. He’s got a talent for working with elemental magic; he could probably imbue his friends’ weapons with it if he tried. If he’s feeling particularly daring, maybe he’ll even use one of the magic flasks to attack the bloodhorn. And healing, of course. He’d be a miserable excuse for an Oracle if he neglected that part of his duty.

“You might get hurt.”

Ignis frowns. “So could anyone. I’m prepared for that.”

“You’ll bleed.”

“I know what injuries are.”

“Are you sure white is the best choice?”

“It’s the color of my nation, Gladio, and of my calling as well. I will not trade it for anything.”

“Not even when you get filthy with gore like you did yesterday?”

“There are magical ways to rectify that.”

“Seems like a waste of magic.”

Ignis sets down his cup perhaps a little more forcefully than is entirely necessary. “Either I continue using the magic, Gladiolus,” he says irritably, “or I walk into Galdin Quay covered in blood. You choose.”

Gladio raises his hands in surrender. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“Thank you.” Ignis downs his coffee. It was meant to be a sort of conversation ender, but Ignis just ends up wincing at the burn of it still being just slightly too hot. He sets his cup down and stands. “I’m going to wake Noct. We should go take care of the mutant dualhorn before it gets too late if we have any chance of making it to Galdin Quay today.”

“Yeah, I’ll leave that to you.” Gladio’s sharp eyes follow him to the tent. “And it’s a bloodhorn, Ignis.”

“Semantics,” Ignis calls over his shoulder.

Prompto rolls out of the tent as Ignis approaches. His hair is still an utter mess, and his eyes are even more red-rimmed than they usually are, wide in his pale face. He bounds to his feet in that uniquely gangly way that he has, bouncing around on his heels with an impossible amount of energy. Gods, Ignis envies him. 

“Nice of you to show up,” Gladio rumbles.

“You’re a mess,” Ignis tells him, reaching out to adjust the flipped collar of Prompto’s vest. “You look like you just forgot your school bag in the Citadel.”

“That was  _ one  _ time!” Prompto whines, and Gladio snorts.

Ignis chuckles and pats Prompto on the cheek. “Your hair,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, I got it.” Prompto trudges towards the fire and swipes up a few pieces of anak jerky that they’d packed for the journey, biting at one thoughtfully. As an afterthought, he adds, “You’re not even wearing your gloves!”

“It’s early yet,” Ignis replies.

“Double standard!”

Ignis grins over his shoulder and ducks into the tent.

Inside, the light only barely filters through the tent flap. It does a fine enough job of illuminating Noct, sprawled out in jacketless fatigues on the ground. He kicked off his blanket at some point. Technically, it had been the one that Ignis had been using anyway, so Ignis supposes the natural order has been reestablished. 

Ignis almost doesn’t want to disturb him. It’s rare to see Noct look so peaceful.

But they have a job to do. Princes keep their promises.

Ignis crouches at his side. “Noct,” he murmurs, grasping Noct’s shoulder. “Noctis.”

Noct groans quietly and shrugs away from Ignis, curling further into himself. 

Ignis bites at his lip. His hand itches to reach out and sink his fingers into Noct’s hair to soothe him into wakefulness. Noct makes another miserable, groaning noise and turns away from the light, screwing his eyes shut, and Ignis sighs. “Noct, I hate to do this to you, but this road trip runs on a schedule. We’ve a creature to take down.”

With a voice that is decidedly displeased with that, Noct mumbles, “Sun’s barely up.”

“You’re not even looking at that side of the tent.”

“I can tell.”

“That sounds like a lie,” Ignis says gently. He adds, “I’m good at what I do, Noct, but my magic only lasts so long. Until we make camp again, what we ate is all we have to give us an advantage.” From what he’d heard about the bloodhorn, and from his glimpses at normal dualhorns from across the wide Leiden plains, he’s tried to devote his energies to increasing their own vitality. He hopes it’ll be enough to get them through this fight with minimal casualties. The gods only know that it took a lot of energy out of Noct to imbue their stock of energy drinks with healing powers. He must be trying to sleep off that exhaustion. 

Noct mutters something unintelligible but doesn’t quite move.

“Noct,” Ignis sighs, and he settles down cross-legged beside Noct. “If you don’t get up, I’ll be forced to fetch Gladio.”

“Not Gladio,” Noct groans, and he turns to face Ignis, which is...a start, at least. He cracks open an eye, scowling up at Ignis. “Where’s Prompto?”

“Outside eating some breakfast like a responsible member of this group.”

“Hey.”

Ignis smiles. “I’ve had my coffee, but if you’d like to join me for a quick breakfast before we break camp, I’d appreciate it. Your window is quickly closing, though.”

Noct throws an arm over his eyes, sighs, and drags himself to a sitting position. He finally opens both eyes, staring right at Ignis. The sunlight hits his eyes, turning them nearly crystalline and deepening Noct’s scowl, but it’s a triumph and Ignis will absolutely take credit for it. Noct asks, “Happy now?” He’s close enough that the two of them are mere inches apart, blinking at each other in the dim light of the tent. Noct holds his gaze expectantly.

“I’m thrilled,” Ignis replies, “but this is only half the battle.” He sticks his hand into the space between them. “Join me outside?”

Noct’s eyes flicker down to his hand. “No gloves,” he notes quietly instead of answering. His voice still has the gravel-rough quality of sleep to it.

Ignis flexes his fingers, looking down at them. “I haven’t quite finished my morning routine,” he admits. “Besides, I’m among friends.”

“Yeah,” Noct says quietly. He blinks down at Ignis’s hand for a moment, then seems to snap out of it and tentatively takes it. “Yeah, time for breakfast.” He’s not wearing his glove either, and his skin is warm with his dormant magic. Ignis nearly startles at the touch. They’ve held hands like this on and off since they were children; it feels odd, somehow, to do it outside of Insomnia.

Ignis unfolds his legs and gets to his feet as well as he can within the tent and guides Noct out. “Come on,” he urges. “We’ve a fine selection of jerky to eat.”

“So...just anak, then.”

“Astute observation, Noct.”

“Thanks.” Noct ducks out of the tent ahead of him, and his fingers slip from Ignis’s as he emerges into the daylight. “It’s bright,” he complains.

“That’s the sun,” Gladio tells him sagely.

“I hate you.”

Breakfast is much of the same, and Ignis settles in comfortably in his chair, basking in the soft early morning sunlight with the rest of his companions. This part of the road trip isn’t quite so bad, if he has to admit it. 

Eventually, they agree that they should track down the bloodhorn before Ignis’s enhancing magic wears off, and they break camp in a decent amount of time. Tracking the beast turns out to be a simple thing; they merely follow the path of destruction it’s left in its wake. The destruction is hard to distinguish from the parts that are merely war-torn and left in disuse; the sight of the remnants of the great nation Lucis had once been sends a twinge into Ignis’s heart, and he catches Noct studying some of the rusted old machinery with curious, sad eyes as well. It’s perhaps not the homecoming he had wanted. 

The bloodhorn turns out to be a real menace of a thing, red-eyed and red-horned. The second he lays eyes on it, Ignis can’t help but want to reach out to it and obey the nagging urge to  _ heal.  _ He thinks better of it, though, and dismisses the confusing thought, urging Noct to listen to Gladio’s instructions. He settles in behind a boulder and studies the creature for its weaknesses. Again, the urge to  _ heal  _ rings out in his heart as he watches a reddish miasma drift from the eyes and mouth of the beast, but he doesn’t think there’s much he can do for a creature so aggressive. The scraggly fur around its throat, though, presents an idea. 

“Noct!” he calls, and in a heartbeat, blue sparks explode before his eyes, revealing Noct at the top of the boulder. “Here,” Ignis says, and he raises a flask of fire magic in his hands; in a single fluid motion, Noct brings up his hands to receive it, and the glass shatters between them. When the shards disappear into the armory, Noct is left crouched beside him with tendrils of flame blooming around his fingers. He summons his engine blade, and the flames crawl along its surface.

“Thanks,” he says, and he smiles, and it’s the most feral, beautiful thing Ignis has ever seen him do.

And then he’s gone, warping across the battlefield to break through the creature’s horn with a resounding crack, and the battle rages on.

Ignis helps when he can, leaping across the dusty earth to rescue his teammates when they get knocked to the ground. He calls orders when he can, dancing around Gladio to position his friend for the perfect strike. 

The bloodhorn makes a savage swipe at him once with a cracked horn, lurching towards him. Its mouth drips the foul, reddish ooze that makes Ignis’s heart burn. There’s nobody close enough to jump into the path of the bloodhorn, so Ignis swallows, stands his ground, and summons his spear. It glimmers into his hand with the music of the Crystal in his ears, and then he’s armed against the charging bloodhorn, Oracle against horrible mutant.

He grins, pushes his glasses up, and leaps.

This one is a trick he’s not yet tried out in the field, and Ignis nearly laughs at the rush of soaring through the air, spear in hand. He’s reminded of the stories of the dragoons his mother used to whisper to him at night before bed, and he smiles. Just as quickly, though, he’s sinking through the air, fast and deadly, and he readies the point of his spear, focuses his weight on it, and falls.

He lands, cracking the dusty earth beneath him, and the bloodhorn stumbles, roars, and falls to its side.

Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio are on it in an instant, raining deathblows on it with reckless abandon. It’s carnage, pure and simple, and though Ignis is proud he can’t help but feel a little nauseous. This is what Noctis had meant in his excitement about their uniforms: they’re soldiers now, doing more than just playing at war. Ignis hopes they don’t still think it’s a game.

The bloodhorn dies. Ignis’s blessing from the night before fades as well as they trek back through the dust of Leide, bloody and tired. They really do hope it’s worth it.

Cindy’s pleased to see them back in one piece, and they’re equally thrilled to see that the same goes for the Regalia. Cid and Cindy have fixed her up magnificently. It’s a fine enough reward, and so is the gil they make by selling off the various treasures and monster parts they’d collected in the field. It turns out that scorpion barbs are worth some money. Cindy recruits them to deliver a package to an outpost they’ll reach along the way to Galdin Quay, and after all that she’s done for them, Gladio insists they give her a hand with the delivery. It won’t put them too far out of the way, so who are they to complain?

After they’ve stocked up on ingredients and more curatives for the journey while still leaving enough to spare for any future lodgings they may need, Ignis pulls out the keys to the Regalia. He looks at them, then at Noctis, and he sighs. “You can drive today, Noct.”

Noct’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Ignis tosses him the keys. “Really. I trust you.”

Gladio rolls his eyes, but he slides into his spot in the back seat anyway. “After what Prompto did to the Regalia, I’m shocked.”

“Hey!”

“It wasn’t Prompto’s fault,” Ignis interjects smoothly, “and this is Noct’s car, after all. And since you seem none too eager to drive, Gladio, I leave it to His Highness.” He cements his point further by climbing into the back seat, arranging himself comfortably behind the driver’s seat. 

Noct grins and hops into the driver’s seat. “Prompto, up front!” he calls, and Prompto obeys with a laugh and a snap of his camera, presumably commemorating what will hopefully not be the Regalia’s final journey. They did just get her fixed up, after all; Ignis prays this won’t be a mistake.

They make it to Longwythe Rest Area with minimal complications. Gladio has to shove Prompto away from Noctis a few times to keep the prince from crashing the car, but Ignis supposes it could have been worse. They make the delivery without much trouble.

Gladio scowls and points down the road from where several paths cross at the rest area. “Empire’s set up a blockade.”

Ignis peers down the road and, yes, there’s a massive brown door set against greener hills, and the looming mass of the Meteor behind it. “To Duscae, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not going that way, though are we?”

“No, but I don’t like having our options limited like that.” Gladio rubs at his chin and turns back to the car. “I don’t like it.”

Ignis is tempted to wander over to the Crow’s Nest and bother the proprietor for his recipe for fried fish. He remembers that Noct and Prompto liked buying fast food like that back in Insomnia, and if they have time during this road trip, he thinks he’d like to surprise them.

“Umbra!” Noct calls delightedly, and Ignis turns at once.

There’s the Messenger, sitting placidly in the parking lot, wearing his customary green sash. His pale eyes gleam with some untold secret, promising glimpses of times long past if Ignis ever dared to look closely. 

“Hello, Umbra,” Ignis greets warmly, and Umbra makes a soft half-bark in acknowledgement, submitting the the scratches that Noct is giving him between his ears. “Recently arrived from Tenebrae, I assume.”

Prompto gapes. “From Tenebrae? Recently? Isn’t that, like...across the entire ocean?”

“Something like that,” Gladio answers. “But Umbra kind of bypasses all of that.”

Ignis looks over his shoulder. “Like Pryna,” he explains.

That brings a secretive smile to Prompto’s face, and he nods. “Makes sense.”

Ignis smiles at him and turns back to Umbra, crouching at his side while Noct unfastens the notebook from Umbra’s sash. He takes the sides of Umbra’s face and presses their foreheads together, breathing in quietly.

_ Hello,  _ he murmurs in his heart.  _ I’ve missed you. _

Even though Umbra is here ostensibly for Noct and to deliver the journal, Ignis can’t help but feel like perhaps his prayers from the night before have been answered. 

Umbra doesn’t reply. He never does, or at least not with words. Ignis likes the ambiguity, in a way. Oftentimes, the words of the Messengers only confuse him more. That, or they only remind him of who he is, and of the reality of his calling. Umbra, though, only presses his forehead to Ignis’s in return, steady and loving, before snorting and pulling away. He licks at Ignis’s cheek. 

Ignis laughs. “Quite eager today, I see.” He digs around in his pockets and sighs, turning to Noct, who’s pressing a stamp onto the next page of the notebook. “Do you have the treats, Noct?”

“Side pocket of the jacket,” Noct mumbles absently, pulling a pen from the armiger to scribble a message onto the fine white pages of the book. Ignis rolls his eyes and reaches into one of the myriad pockets of the jacket. “No, the other one. Yes, that.”

“My thanks, Noct.” Ignis offers a treat to Umbra, who snatches it out of his fingers with unnatural speed. Ignis shakes his head and sits back on his heels, smiling faintly at the Messenger. “I’m fully aware that you take this form to take advantage of me, you know,” he tells Umbra matter of factly.

Umbra, chewing thoughtfully on the treat, looks at him out of the corner of his eye but makes no other acknowledgements.

Prompto sidles closer to Ignis and bends down. “Can I pet him?” he asks quietly.

Ignis shrugs. “Ask him yourself.” He’s not one to speak for the companions of the gods. Or, actually he is, but those are semantics he’s not about to get into.

Umbra blinks steadily at Prompto and tilts his head to the side. He leans forward and sniffs at the hand that Prompto tentatively offers, then seems to accept him and licks his fingers. His eyes slip shut as he happily accepts Prompto’s scratches beneath his chin, tongue lolling out happily.

“Impossible,” Ignis says, shaking his head. 

Noct snorts and reaches past Prompto to fasten the notebook onto Umbra’s back once more. “He’s never going to stop talking about this.”

“No,” Prompto agrees, still transfixed by Umbra, burying his fingers in the Messenger’s thick black fur, “I never will.”

“Let the guy go, Prompto,” Gladio says, grasping Prompto’s shoulder. “He’s got places to be.”

Prompto makes a whiny noise in the back of his throat, but he gives a final pat to the top of Umbra’s head and steps back. “Thanks, buddy.”

Umbra barks and trots off - with considerably more spring in his step, Ignis notices - to some place beyond where they can see. Ignis has done this enough to know that if he were to follow Umbra around the corner, the Messenger would be nowhere to be seen.

He turns to Noct. “From Luna?”

Noct nods.

“Anything...significant?” 

He shrugs. “She’s left Tenebrae.”

Ignis breathes out a sigh. Somehow that only makes him more anxious. “Very well.”

Noct bites at his lip and looks down at his feet. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to send anything back too,” he says quietly.

“We’ll be seeing her soon enough,” Ignis assures him. “Not to worry.” He’s not quite sure what he would have said to Lunafreya anyway. What words cover the breadth of the excitement and fear he feels at the prospect of seeing his sister again after all this time?

“If you’re sure…”

“Of course I am. Trust me.”

After a moment, Noct nods. “I trust you.”

Ignis smiles, though he’s not quite sure why the words hurt.

They don’t bother staying in Longwythe. If they hurry, they’ll be able to get to Galdin Quay before it gets too late in the afternoon, and that prospect is more than appealing to Ignis. Perhaps they’ll be able to catch an early ferry and not have to stay the night at the resort. The sooner they’re in the Accordo Protectorate, the sooner they’ll be out of immediate imperial scrutiny, and the easier it will be to wait for the coming wedding and peace. Noct slides into the driver’s seat once more, and they’re off.

He feels it then.

A headache, faint at first, blooming from the back of his mind. It’s the same pinprick of awareness that he’s had since Insomnia, warning him of a looming darkness. It’s not night time, though, and that’s what worries Ignis. He gets the chills up his spine nonetheless.

The further they get from Longwythe and the closer they get to the coast, the more Ignis’s headache worsens. 

He frowns and takes off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt to hopefully deflect any attention. As he puts them back on, though, he rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the growing ache that throbs through his entire skull. It’s bone-deep like the chill he’d felt in Insomnia the day that everything had changed. 

“Something’s wrong,” he murmurs. Galdin Quay is glittering below them, beautiful as all the photos have promised, but all Ignis can think of is the rising wave of darkness. “We can’t go there.”

Gladio glances at him and frowns. “We have to. That’s where the boats are, Iggy.”

Noct meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Ignis,” he says, though he doesn’t stop the car, “is it serious?”

“No,” Ignis says quickly. It’s a lie, but perhaps it can’t hurt. If nobody else can feel it, then perhaps it’s not a problem. Gentiana hasn’t seen fit to explain it to him either, so it can’t be too pressing of an issue. He can work through the pain. “No, let’s continue on. The sooner we get to Altissia, the better.”

Noct’s gaze lingers for a moment longer, but then his lips set in a thin line and he accelerates, taking them speeding down the winding road to Galdin Quay. “Fine.”

The descent makes Ignis’s head ache with every passing second, but he doesn’t mention it.

By the time they’ve parked the car, he’s gritting his teeth against the feeling. He wishes for a washcloth like what Noctis had used on him in Insomnia. When Prompto bounds up beside him, slapping at his rear and chattering about the restaurant and the distant island of Angelgard, Ignis manages to muster up a smile. “It would be nice to get closer to the island of the gods,” he agrees faintly. “Let’s do it.”

Prompto grins widely and pulls out his camera. “Let’s go while the light is good!”

With every step down the boardwalk towards the Mother of Pearl restaurant, Ignis’s vision fades just a bit, obscured by the freezing darkness. He shudders.

Noct’s fingers brush against his wrist. “Okay?” he asks quietly.

Ignis nods, not trusting himself to look in Noct’s eyes. Noct would immediately recognize the lie. He’s lucky that Noct didn’t directly touch his skin, or he’d feel the chill there. “I’ll be fine,” he assures him.

And that’s when Ignis sees him.

At the center of it all, standing in the eye of the swirling hurricane of darkness, stands a man dressed in black.

Ignis fears him.

As they walk up to him, the chills race down Ignis’s back, chased by the threat of oily darkness that crawls between his bones. His heart screams  _ heal heal heal,  _ but Ignis cannot turn away now without letting Noctis know that something is wrong. He tries to focus his gaze at something just beyond the reddish halo of this man’s hair, because his head throbs if he looks too closely at him. It’s like looking into a black hole.

The man lets them approach, undaunted by the hostility that Gladio immediately exudes. He drawls with a voice that is all at once friendly and dripping with poison, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

Noctis raises a brow. “Are we?”

“The boats bring you here.”

“What about ’em?” Prompto challenges.

The man smiles. “Well, they’ll not take you forth.”

Gladio steps forward. “And what’s your story?”

“I’m an impatient traveler, ready to turn ship. The ceasefire’s getting us nowhere.”

He turns, almost like he’s about to leave them alone, but then he whips around and tosses a coin at Noctis. Ignis nearly gasps, but thankfully Gladio snatches it out of the air before it can get to Noct. Gladio growls, “What’s this? Some sort of souvenir?”

Prompto leans towards Noct and hisses, “They make those?”

Noct glances over at him. “What? No,” he mutters.

“Consider it your allowance.”

Gladio asks, “Yeah, and who’s allowing us?”

The stranger waves a hand in the air and drawls, “A man of no consequence.”

Noctis mutters, “Yeah, right.”

Ignis is inclined to agree with him. There’s something about this man that he doesn’t quite understand, and he’s not sure he wants to. His head aches the more he looks at him. When the man draws closer, turning to leave, Ignis bites his lip to keep from screaming.

The stranger smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Ignis hates him. He has never hated anyone or anything, and his mother taught him to be kind, but this man somehow transcends every instinct he has ever known. Every fiber of Ignis’s being screams at him to get far, far away.

The man spares him a look as he goes, and he smiles, and for half a heartbeat as he brushes past, Ignis can see black ichor staining the whites of his eyes. The near-contact is enough to set his heart racing again, sending chills up his spine and forcing his headache to a nigh-unbearable level.

And then he’s retreating, and the darkness ebbs too, slowly following him in noxious, obedient waves.

Prompto stares after him, gunman-sharp eyes trailing him down the walkway towards the parking lot. “Weird guy,” he comments.

Noct shrugs.

“It would be best if we avoided him in the future,” Ignis says, and he touches Noct’s elbow, urging him to turn back around. “I don’t think he’s the type of person we should be interacting with.”

“He was eccentric, sure,” Gladio replies, continuing on into the resort, “but I don’t think he was threatening.”

“He threw a coin at us, Gladio! And I didn’t like the way he was looking at us.” Ignis holds his hand out to Gladio. “Let me see it, anyway.”

Gladio flips the coin towards him. It flickers bright silver in the air, innocuous and beautiful. Ignis is privately pleased that he’s wearing his gloves; he can practically feel the residual darkness oozing off the coin. In the daytime, at least, the feeling isn’t so terrible. Ignis squints at the coin, turning it over. And-

Oh.

It’s an Oracle ascension coin.

It’s recent.

It’s his sister.

“I-” Ignis stares at it. “I had no idea.”

“This coin...it’s to commemorate Lunafreya’s ascension as Oracle.”

Prompto’s brows furrow. “But you’re-”

“I know full well.” Ignis shakes his head. “They must still be pushing the narrative that I’m dead.”

“What do they gain from that?”

“The people’s love, for one. If they control the woman who they say inherited the power of the Oracle, then they control the masses.” Ignis frowns and traces the metallic lines of his sister’s profile, feeling the lettering of her name in stark relief beneath his thumb. “But it takes all suspicion from me.”

Prompto tilts his head to the side. “But that’s good. Right?”

Gladio says, “I’m not so sure.”

“If the people don’t know you’re alive,” Noct says darkly, “they won’t care if you die.”

“Who says I’m dying?” Ignis asks.

Noct shrugs, but there’s something far less casual in his eyes, thoughtful and concerned. “We’re at war.”

“For now.” Ignis looks back at the coin. His bare thumb brushes against the metal, and some deep part of him cries out at the contact with the residual darkness clinging to the coin like a stain. He winces.

Noct looks at him closely. “What’s wrong?”

Ignis trades his grimace for apologetic neutrality. “Headache.”

“Right.” Noct doesn’t look at all convinced.

“Let’s make for the docks,” Ignis suggests, and he hands the ascension coin to Noct, despite his misgivings about it. Noct scowls for a moment before pocketing it somewhere in his uniform - the gods only know how many pockets he actually has - and heeding Ignis, heading into the safety of the Mother of Pearl restaurant. Ignis sighs, rubs between his temples when he’s sure Noct can’t see him, and follows.

As it turns out, and to everyone’s great displeasure, the boats aren’t coming. Ignis hates that the stranger had been right, and he hates even more that this reporter has recognized Noctis and is blackmailing them into getting a stone for him. Ignis just considers it lucky that this Dino guy only chose to expose Noctis. If the public were to find out that the Oracle walks in Lucis, he’s not quite sure what he’d do. 

The horrible, massive hurricane bird they find at the location Dino marked for them flies off instead of destroying them, which is...preferable.

On the way back, with plenty of precious stones in their pockets - and one for Dino, but he’d never said anything about them taking some for themselves - Noct ends up driving again. Ignis still can’t stop thinking about the darkness at Galdin Quay, and his fingers shake with occasional tremors at a phantom chill. He wonders how cold his skin is getting with every minute that they get closer to sundown. It makes him glad to have his gloves; at least he can avoid the chill and pretend there’s not a problem.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it.

“Noct,” he says quietly, leaning forward in his seat to get close to Noct’s ear. Prompto and Gladio are dozing on their side of the car, and he’s not in the mood to disturb them.

“Hm?” Noct taps idly at the steering wheel. 

“The envoy from Niflheim that proposed the marriage between yourself and Lunafreya was the chancellor, right?”

Noct’s brows furrow from what Ignis can see in the rearview mirror. The car slows a bit, as if Noct’s taken his foot off the accelerator to contemplate what Ignis has asked of him. It wouldn’t matter anyway: there are hardly any other people on the roads. “Yeah.”

“Do you think the chancellor works around...daemons? Like with the army?”

“He might. Why?”

“I was just thinking,” Ignis says.

“About?”

Ignis frowns. “I’m not quite sure.”

It can’t be a coincidence. The horrible, chilling darkness is the same as it was within the Wall. It’s ebbing and flowing, flooding towards him in an unavoidable wave, only to recede with the departure of a man of no consequence. Ignis doesn’t trust it.

Noct asks, “Anything I can help with?”

He shudders and turns to look out the window at the cliffs around them, hoping that he’ll get to see the sea again soon.

They manage to rent a room at the resort as planned, though Ignis isn’t sure how the plan will work out tomorrow. Perhaps with the peace talks looming closer, the ferries will arrive. Or maybe they’ll have to wait. They’ll have to take on hunts or sell the treasures they’ve found along the way if they have any hope of affording this place for more than a few nights; they can figure it out.

Tonight, though, they have a room. This is where the problem appears.

The room has only two beds.

Gladio slings his bag onto the bed closest to the door. “You know the drill.”

Ignis crosses his arms. “Do we?”

Gladio points at the other bed. “Princes go there. No arguments.”

“Gladio, this isn’t entirely necessary.”

“Yes, it is. I have a job to do, Iggy. You’re sleeping there tonight, and so’s His Laziness. We’ll figure out this boat business tomorrow.”

Noct brushes past Ignis, yawning. Somehow, he’s already gotten changed into more comfortable clothes. Ignis has no idea how he managed it. “I’m going to bed,” he announces, and he promptly slides under the covers of the bed closest to the window.

Ignis groans.

Gladio shrugs. “Seems like he’s on board.”

“He’d sleep anywhere if you gave him the chance, Gladiolus,” Ignis snaps. “And this isn’t over. I can protect myself, you know. I’m-”

“The Oracle, yeah. And Noct’s some sort of chosen king, and I still stand by his side. Help me help him by helping you, and get into the bed.”

“Awfully convoluted,” Ignis grumbles, but he stalks into the bathroom and strips out of the bulky parts of his uniform, splashing water on his face. There’ll be time for a shower tomorrow, he supposes. For now, this will have to be enough; he’s too tired to do much else, loathe as he is to admit it. He inspects his face in the mirror for what feels like the first time in ages; he really does look like a mess. After only a day on the road, his eyes are red-rimmed with more than just fatigue. He certainly doesn’t look like an Oracle.

Or maybe he does, and this is him finally inheriting the true weight of his calling.

Ignis sighs and hangs his head. “Just a few more days,” he tells his reflection. Until what, he’s not quite sure. The peace, maybe, or until he sees his sister again. Or until Regis’s mission for him calls him to the resting places of the gods. All of those prospects excite him, though not exactly for the same reasons.

He leaves the bathroom and crawls into bed before his thoughts can get the best of him, slipping beneath the covers. After their first night camping, this feels simply divine. Noct’s already asleep, curled in on himself and facing away from Ignis.

On a whim, Ignis almost wraps his arm around Noct’s skinny shoulders. He just feels like both of them might need the comfort. The instinct nags at him for a little while, and usually he isn’t one to ignore the deepest urgings of his heart for fear of ignoring the directives of the astrals, but he resists it for now. 

Eventually, he manages to ignore the feeling, and he turns over, curls up a little bit, and takes solace in the barely-there press of Noct’s back against his. The familiarity of the heat of Noct’s presence is a comfortable reminder of home in this place beyond the Wall. Tonight, he hears no far-off cries in the darkness. All that there is is the sound of the waves and of his companions’ breathing, and the steady sureness of Noct at his side. He lets it lull him into stillness, and then into sleep.

He dreams that night.

He dreams of home.

Gentiana walks through nearly-forgotten sylleblossom fields, not bending a single stalk or bloom beneath her feet. Umbra and Pryna trot at her side, as different as night and day, future and past, light and darkness. Behind them, stirring in the distance against the backdrop of Tenebrae, Ignis can see the rest of them: Messengers all, unleashed and waking in the moonlight. He’s never seen this many; he’s never had dreams quite like this.

“The world is changing,” Gentiana tells him. “Is the Oracle prepared to face it?”

Ignis swallows around his fear. “I am,” he says, and he hopes his voice does not shake.

“Take heed,” she whispers, and for a moment the echo of her voice hitches into the rough timbre of the king Ignis left behind. “Once you go forth, you cannot turn back.” 

“I won’t,” Ignis promises.

Gentiana’s eyes flash, and for a moment, Ignis’s entire heart turns to ice. One day he will have to deliver this covenant to Noctis and pass the blessing of the Glacian to the Chosen King, but for now he bears its chill alone. The coldness, familiar as it is, only makes him more aware of the part of himself he lost to gain it. “Then look to the future, that the threat may be known to the Oracle.”

Ignis turns around, and he quakes at the darkness before him.

It’s the same roiling, filthy darkness that has plagued his mind ever since Insomnia. Now he can see it truly, though, and it gleams an ugly red and purple in its darkest depths, swirling with poison. It looks like the world beyond the runes of his ancestors, tainted in the dead of night.

In the distance, deep in the darkness, something roars in anguish, and flames billow from the black clouds.

Beside him, Gentiana’s eyes are wide open, staring at the spot the flames left behind. There’s a curious sadness in her gaze, despite her power. A tear wells at the corner of one of her impossible starset eyes, for once unfrozen. It makes Ignis sad too, just looking at her. 

He blinks, and the scene changes.

Lined up before the fathomless source of the darkness, kings beyond number stand in spectral form, glowing blue and silver. They hold the darkness at bay with their might, armored and armed and gleaming. Ignis recognizes some of them out of the myriad crowd, picking out the details of the statues of the Old Wall. This, he realizes, is the full might of the Lucii, one hundred and thirteen strong.

Before them all stands a figure, pale and alone and gleaming with light.

A king.  _ The  _ king.

Ignis isn’t sure how he knows, but every part of his heart reaches out to the lone king, and he murmurs, “Noct.”

He reaches a hand out, but he can’t move any closer to the legion of the Lucii.

Gentiana’s voice sends chills down his spine. “The Chosen will purge the darkness from our star.”

Ignis swallows around the sudden lump in his throat; he’s not sure why that makes him so sad. “He will.”

“The Oracle must stand by him. He must wake the gods and secure their blessings for the Chosen.”

“I will.”

“The Oracle must fight.”

Ignis turns to Gentiana, shaking his head. “Gentiana, I cannot-”

He stops.

Gentiana is holding the Trident.

“Gentiana,” he murmurs, staring at his mother’s weapon. His birthright.

“Take it,” she tells him.

Ignis reaches out.

The sacred metal vibrates and hums beneath his touch, sending ethereal music into his bones. If he focuses, he can hear his mother’s voice, singing him songs of the stars to soothe him to sleep. 

Ignis looks down at it, holding on tightly. “I don’t-”

“Do what must be done,” Gentiana orders, unyielding and commanding and cold as ice, “for the protection of this Star.”

The darkness roars. Something shifts and laughs in its depths, or maybe it is the darkness itself, and Ignis cannot help but feel like it’s watching him. Like it’s laughing at him. Like it’s waiting.

It’s coming for him.

He’s afraid.

Ignis steps back from it, shaking his head frantically. “Gentiana, I’m not ready,” he says, and he looks to her, but she’s gone. When he turns back to find her, the towers of Tenebrae are burning, and the Messengers have all disappeared. The flames are coming his way, tearing through the fields of sylleblossoms, offering no comfort. Ignis thinks, faintly, that he can see his last memories of his siblings running towards him through the flames, twelve years too young. The silhouette that might be Luna holds fire unbound in her hands, and Ravus reaches out to him with a burning, crumbling hand.

Ignis can’t reach them. He can’t do anything but watch.

He looks down, and the Trident is dissolving in his hands, turning to starlight. He clings to it, but it fades from his grasp, and his mother’s music turns discordant in his ears.

He looks up. Noct is gone. The kings are gone.

He’s alone, trapped between flames and the scourge of the stars.

And the darkness comes for him. It’s coming for them all; they don’t have time, and he needs to  _ heal- _

He wakes with a jolt, gasping for air. For a few long, frantic moments, all he can do is breathe, trying to clear the taste of smoke from his lungs. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s safely in Galdin Quay, in bed with the prince, behind the walls that afford them privacy and anonymity.

It doesn’t quite help the panicked beating of his heart.

Noct is still asleep beside him, peacefully slumbering without any indication of dreams at the same magnitude of Ignis’s. Ignis is relieved for him, at least; he wouldn’t wish these dreams on anyone.

Not for the first time, Ignis wishes he could ask his mother for guidance.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plants his feet on the floor, savoring the steadiness of the floor beneath his feet. He’s faintly reminded of sylleblossoms beneath his feet, giving way with every step he takes. He shudders.

The massive glassy door to the balcony slides open, and Gladio comes padding into the room with bare feet, towel around his shoulders. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Took a dip; you should try it.”

“Perhaps later,” Ignis says. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Morning.” Gladio runs the towel over his arms, wiping away stray drops of seawater. “Sleep well?”

“I’ve slept better.”

“If it’s because you’re sharing the bed, Iggy, I’m sorry-”

“No,” Ignis interrupts with a small, placid smile. “Actually, if anything, the familiarity helped.” He thinks about the warmth of Noctis at his side, and he almost misses it. He’d crawl back into bed if he didn’t feel so “Just not my best night.”

Gladio settles down cross-legged on the floor, swiping a book from the coffee table. “Shame,” he says. “They’re nice beds.”

Prompto’s stirring in the bed that he’d shared with Gladio, blinking blearily over at them. “Mornin’,” he yawns, stretching languidly between the sheets. “What time is it?”

“Not too early,” Ignis assures him. “Eight or nine.”

“That’s early.”

Ignis smiles faintly and rummages around in his bags for a clean set of clothes. He quickly changes out of his softer sleepwear, trading silver for gold and ivory. The colors are a comfort after the stress of the night. It’s like even the trappings of his calling are enough to ground him and remind him of his place. The golden light in his heart warms at the thought, and that’s enough to calm his nervous thoughts a bit.

Gladio’s watching him the whole time. “Going somewhere?”

“Just for some air,” Ignis says, slipping into his shoes, “and some news.”

“News?”

“It doesn’t hurt to stay informed.” That, and he can’t resist the nagging instincts of the astrals today. Not after his dream; he swears he can still smell smoke.

Gladio studies him for another moment, but he shrugs and returns to his book. “Don’t let me stop you, then.”

Ignis nods and runs his fingers through his hair to arrange it. This early in the morning, he hardly expects anyone else to be awake. Besides, he’s only going to grab a newspaper and perhaps some coffee. He’ll probably end up bringing the coffee back to their room anyway to enjoy the morning. Perhaps he’ll ask around to see if there are any locals willing to bring him closer to Angelgard. Or maybe Gentiana will help; if there’s anywhere he should go for answers about his dream, it would be there.

He slips out of their suite and into the already-balmy air in the Mother of Pearl restaurant. The sea air blows in between the posts of the resort, bringing the smell of salt and freshness to him, along with something distinctly smoky. The scent of coffee mingles with it, and that’s the one that he follows, meandering slowly over to the center of the resort where the circular bar waits. It’s devoid of any other customers, thankfully; he’s not quite in the mood to have a conversation right now. He’d like to have some silence, and to try to think around this dream of his.

Before he gets too close, though, he decides to explore; he’s not sure how much longer they have here. Besides, he’d rather not drag himself to the bar without having collected himself first. He can indulge.

On his way around the sparsely populated patio, a familiarly decorated image catches his eye. No, not an image: it’s a book cover. Ignis leans closer.

Ah. It’s from the  _ Cosmogony.  _

Ignis picks up the passage with a soft smile, settling down in one of the soft, wide chairs on the patio. It’s a simple one about the Hexatheon, but he likes to consider it a sign of sorts. This is what he’s meant for, right? He traces the looping letters that identify the Glacian, and he feels an answering thrill of cold in the center of his chest where his sole covenant sits. The rest of the list is daunting, he’ll admit, though he supposes he need not worry about gaining the favor of the Infernian. Ifrit is dead, by all accounts, and nobody has heard a whisper of him other than the legend of his corpse gracing Ravatogh’s summit.

Dead for now, then. Ignis has never heard from any of his Messengers anyway; he doesn’t know if any of them would harbor any sort of allegiance to him after all of this time.

But the rest of them are all possibilities. Ignis frowns at the list, trying to figure out some sort of order in which he should wake them, should the opportunity present itself. His dream certainly indicates an opportunity. Leviathan will be the easiest, he supposes; once they get to Altissia, he’ll try to wake her. Titan next: he can see the terrifying, awe-inspiring spires of the Meteor from above the hills bordering Leide. Ramuh would be next, if the legends are right about him resting on Angelgard. He has no idea where Bahamut could possibly be, though. And then there’s the matter of Shiva’s blessing, which he must grant to Noct eventually.

He’s not sure how they’ll work around the empire, but the peace talks should help that. He supposes he’ll have to expose himself as the living Oracle eventually, though, which presents its own set of issues.

Gods, it’s too early for this.

Ignis sets the passage back where he found it in the hopes that some others might come along and find solace in the stories of their gods. He certainly does. He traces the image of the Founder King and Bahamut on the cover for another moment, thoughtful, before he turns and heads in search of something to wake his mind up.

“Coffee?” the woman at the bar - Coctura, he thinks, if he’s not mistaken - asks. She’s got a tired look to her this morning; when does her shift even start? When does it end? Does she sleep?

“Please,” Ignis says, sliding onto a stool. 

Coctura pours coffee from a fine kettle into a ceramic mug. It smells absolutely divine; if this is what Lucis has to offer after thirty years of isolation from Insomnia, Ignis can’t wait to see what Altissia has in store for him. “We all need it after this morning’s news, I should think.”

“This morning’s news?” Ignis repeats. “Has something happened?”

She leans in towards him across the bar. “Haven’t you heard?” she asks him, voice hushed. 

Ignis furrows his brow. “Heard what?” Something deep in his gut drops, and for some reason he can’t stop thinking about half-remembered images of a burning city across the sea. 

Coctura’s eyes turn sad. “I hate to be the one to bear bad news this early in the day, but…” She turns and reaches beneath the counter, producing a newspaper and sliding it over.  “Here,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you for free.”

Ignis reads the headline before he’s even picked up the paper. How could he not, with text so bold?

**INSOMNIA FALLS**

“No,” he murmurs, picking up the paper with such force that he nearly crumples it. He holds it close to his face, skimming it for all of the telltale words. This can’t be true. This can’t be real. It can’t. It can’t.

_ Treaty. _

_ King. _

_ Empire. _

_ Attack. _

_ Oracle- _

He tears his eyes away from it. No. “No,” he repeats aloud.

Coctura looks at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry,” she says. “We’re all pretty shaken. I just hope everyone’s okay. My uncle knew people in the Crown City.”

“I need to-” He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. He stands abruptly, digging in his pocket for some gil. He tosses the money onto the counter, and he’s fairly sure that he’s overpaying, but perhaps that’ll cover the newspaper as well. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Once more, he tastes smoke in his throat, and he dreads it. He mutters something that might be a sad excuse for a farewell to Coctura, and he hurries back towards their shared room.

He’s surprised to see Noctis and the others awake and dressed when he enters. He supposes it’s for the best; he doesn’t think he’d be able to slowly coax Noctis to consciousness only to hit him with this tragedy in black and white. Still, the cruelty of shattering this perfect morning isn’t lost on him.

Noct picks up on it immediately; there must be something in the look on his face. “What is it?”

Ignis goes to speak, but he can’t quite find his voice. 

He holds out the paper to Gladio, who takes it from him with caution. Prompto leans over his shoulder and reads aloud the headline.

Noct flinches. He snarls, “This your idea of a joke?”

Helplessly, Ignis says, “Noct, I can explain.”

Before he can even attempt it, Gladio reads aloud, “As treaty room tempers flared, blasts lit the night sky. When the smoke about the Citadel had cleared, the king was found…” He stops and swallows, then says, “Dead.”

Noctis shakes his head. “No,” he says, as if that’ll stop the truth from becoming real. “Wait, hold on.”

“We had no way of knowing,” Ignis says, tasting the bitterness of the lie, because all he can think about is the desperation in King Regis’s eyes. He should have realized. Regis sent him away; he wanted Ignis to wake the gods. What was he hoping for? Salvation? Or just a head start for Noctis?

He feels nauseous.

“But the wedding!” Noct growls, and he’s pacing now, untethered now and full of rage. “Altissia!”

Ignis says, “That was the plan. But it’s changed.” He considers reaching out to stop Noct in his tracks, but the echo of the gods in his mind warn him against disturbing the power of kings. He holds his ground.

“What about Luna?”

Gladio shakes his head, gesturing with the newspaper. “Last anyone heard, she was in Insomnia.”

Noct swears loudly.

“C’mon, Noct, she’s strong. She’ll be fine.”

“And my father was the strongest-”

Ignis interrupts, “Your father knew what he was doing.”

Noct turns to face him, eyes blazing. His fury flares through the armiger and into Ignis’s bones; out of the corner of his eye, Ignis sees Prompto and Gladio wince as well.  “And why the hell aren’t you worried about this? That’s your sister in there!”

He’s tried not to think about it. Ignis closes his eyes for a moment and tries not to think about the idea of his sister lying dead in the halls of the Citadel. Gods, or Ravus. The Deputy High Commander would have doubtlessly been at the peace talks. “My siblings were both in there, as far as I know.” In Insomnia. They’d been in Insomnia, within the Wall, and for a second they’d been safe. And Ignis hadn’t been there to see them. He prays that he hasn’t missed his last chance to see them once more. Quietly, he says, “I am worried beyond belief, Noct. And I grieve-”

“We don’t know for sure if he’s dead, Ignis-”

Ignis thinks of the myriad kings made of light and crystal, and of Noct before them all, heir to the world he must now cure. “Of course,” he says. Another lie. King Regis is dead; he feels it in his bones. Gentiana would not lie to him. 

“We need to go back,” Noct declares.

Gladio shakes his head. “It won’t be safe for us there.”

“Might not be safe for us here,” Prompto counters, finally speaking up. He’s standing by the window, small and scared, clutching one wrist with his hand as if it’s the only thing keeping him anchored here. “Besides, we’ve all got family in Insomnia. We can’t know unless we go.”

Ignis bows his head. “I know,” he sighs. 

Noct throws open the door to their suite. His anger sends static through the room, threatening the wrath of magic unbound. “I’m going out,” he says in a tone that affords no argument. It’s got a hard edge to it, steel-sharp, and for a moment Ignis is reminded once more of Noct standing alone against a darkness he doesn’t understand. “I’ll be back.”

Ignis glances over to Gladio, expecting him to make some sort of comment, but he’s got a vacant, shell-shocked look in his eyes. Concerned, Ignis moves towards him, but not before halting Noct in his tracks. “Don’t go far,” he warns. “Do  _ not  _ leave the resort. Don’t even go to the Regalia.”

Noct sets his jaw. “I’ll do what I want,” he mutters, and he stalks out of the room before Ignis can protest.

“Prompto,” Ignis says hopelessly.

Prompto bites at his lip, looking from Ignis to Gladio and then to the open door of their room. “I can go watch him,” he offers.

Ignis nods. “Please.”

“‘Course.” Prompto rubs at his wrist and leaves, spinning his wristband around in some sort of nervous tic. Gods, they’re all wrecks.

It’ll be suicide to go back to the Crown City if they’re all this shaken.

None more shaken, it seems at the moment, than Gladio. Ignis rounds on him as soon as the door clicks shut, staring up at him. “Gladio,” he murmurs. “Are you there?”

Gladio blinks at him; there’s something devastated in his bright amber eyes. They’re brighter than normal, really, belying the presence of tears. “I’m here,” he rasps. “The attack-”

“We don’t know for sure,” Ignis interjects, echoing what Noct had said, despite his misgivings. 

“My dad,” Gladio says, eyes wide. “My dad was in the city. He would’ve been in the fucking room where it happened, Ignis,  _ fuck-” _

“Gladio-”

“My sister was in Insomnia!” Gladio sits down heavily, putting his head in his hands. 

Ignis’s heart sinks. Not Iris. She’s only a child; if she’d died, Ignis doesn’t quite know what he’d do. “Oh, Gladio,” he says softly.

“She couldn’t have known. She could still be in there, Ignis.”

“I’m sure she’s safe-”

“How?” Gladio asks sharply, looking up at Ignis. “How can you be so sure?”

Ignis opens his mouth to spin another platitude to present to Gladio, but he finds himself deflating instead, sitting down heavily beside his friend. “I’m not,” he admits. “I’m terrified, Gladio.”

“Your siblings-”

“I can’t know for sure if my brother was there,” Ignis interjects. “I can reasonably assume that Lunafreya was there; the paper mentioned the Oracle, and we know that’s not me, as far as Niflheim is concerned.” He thinks of his dream, and of his siblings reaching for him, burning. “But I won’t kid myself; I know they were both there.”

Gladio heaves a sigh. “We shouldn’t go back there,” he says, clenching his fists. For a moment, the air shimmers around his fingers, threatening the arrival of his greatsword. But the moment passes, and Gladio seems to give up, and his hands relax. “But we have to know. I understand.”

“We’ll be together.”

“I’ve gotta-” Gladio presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second, breathing deeply. When he lowers his hands again, his eyes are red-rimmed but focused. “I’ve gotta go back to Noct.”

“Noct can wait.”

“No,” Gladio says with more force than Ignis was expecting. “No,” he repeats. “I’m his Shield. I have to be there for him.” He swallows. “Like my dad was. For the king.”

Ignis nods, though his heart aches for Gladio. “For the king,” he echoes, and that sounds like a tragedy.

Gladio stands and runs a hand through his hair. “We should get going,” he says, and he starts walking around the room, touching anything that’s theirs and calling it back into the armory where they keep it. It’s not Ignis’s favorite way to store the luggage, and he’d much rather keep up the illusion of normalcy, but Gladio’s right: they need to get out of here. Ignis does his part, swiping up Noct’s forgotten glove and tucking it into his back pocket for later. He’ll need to give it back.

He follows Gladio out of the hotel room, looking back at it with a sigh before he closes the door. He should have known it would never be this easy.

Thankfully, Prompto and Noctis aren’t far; Noct is pacing out in the sunlight right where the resort meets the boardwalk; Gladio gestures towards the parking lot as the two of them walk over to meet them, and Noctis rolls his eyes before stalking off. Prompto follows him at a more sedate pace, camera held abandoned in his hand. Ignis moves to follow them.

“Excuse me!” a voice calls. It’s female, and quite familiar. Ignis turns, and he sees Coctura standing at the entrance to the restaurant.

“Ms. Coctura,” Ignis says, dipping his head. He walks back over to her. “What can I do for you?”

“A word of advice,” Coctura says, voice low. “White may not be the color to wear now. Not many Lucians may be fond of it.”

_ Ah. _

“Ms. Coctura, I do appreciate the concern,” Ignis says, “but I’m afraid my mind is quite made up.”

“Be safe, then,” she urges. “The Crown City is no place for a civilian now. Don’t go running into a warzone.”

Ignis smiles sadly; he worries for this woman now, and all those who may now be targets for having known him. “I’ll be safe,” he promises, praying that the gods will not turn his words into a lie.

He takes his leave.

Noct’s waiting a short distance from the others and the car, scowling out at the horizon. Maybe he’s looking at Angelgard, or maybe he’s watching for the telltale signs of smoke over the water from their burning city; Ignis can’t quite tell. He doesn’t move as Ignis approaches, but a few of the lines in his forehead smooth out, so Ignis takes it as a good sign.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the glove he’d picked up earlier. “You’ll be needing this.”

Noct blinks, hard, and then turns his head, staring down at Ignis’s offering. “I didn’t even realize,” he says with a voice gone rough with rage, and he takes it carefully. When he straps it on, flexing his fingers in the soft black leather, he looks more grounded, somehow, like the completion of the outfit granted him more than just the appearance of a warrior.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ignis says, meeting Noct’s gaze. He hates the misery he can see there.

“I’m going to kill them all, Ignis,” Noct tells him, and it sounds like a promise.

Ignis swallows, hardly daring to break Noct’s gaze. He’s transfixed as it is, drawn in by the magnetism of a king’s magic. Gods, Noct’s a king now.

_ The  _ king, he thinks. The Chosen. Again, his dream flashes in his mind: Noct, shrouded in light, facing the horrible darkness all alone.

“I know you will, Noct,” he says softly.

“Will you be there?” Noct asks, and it’s not soft this time; it’s not quiet and vulnerable. It’s a king asking something of his Oracle, calling him forth to war like the kings of old must have in the days when Lucis had a history written in blood.

Ignis shoves away his fears and his misgivings, and he focuses on Noct. “Always,” he promises, and he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr.](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	5. the hill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis takes his first steps into war.

It takes them the better part of a day to reach Insomnia.

Ignis takes the wheel for the journey. He’s not sure what Noct would do if he was put in control of his father’s car today. The task helps him focus, at least, and takes his mind off of the worst of his wild thoughts. He can’t stop noticing every time Noct meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, though; his gaze grows sharper every time Ignis sees him. Is he bitter with Ignis, or just furious at the world around them that shines in the daylight, heedless of the death just miles away in the nation’s capital?

The thought of Noct’s discontent makes the scenery seem duller.

They were just here - there’s Longwythe looming above the desert, and Hammerhead gleaming in the sunlight. Just a day ago, it’d just been a road trip. Just a day ago, they’d been happy.

It’s all different now. It’s all shattered.

Ignis sees the smoke long before the city comes into view.

As they approach the Crown City checkpoint, it seems they’re not the only ones with the same idea. There are multitudes of cars lined up in the street leading to Insomnia, clamoring to get inside. Surely, some of them are here to retrieve missing family members, or hopefully some are coming to lend aid to the Insomnians in need. There’s a steady stream of people emerging from the gate as well; Ignis’s heart aches to see the soot on their clothes. None of them are spared inspection, though, by the scores of troopers waiting at the gates. They’re armed to the teeth, peeking into every car that tries to pass.

Ignis tightens his hands on the steering wheel. This really isn’t good. Any number of factors can and will give them away, beginning with the fact that they’re driving the king’s car. That checkpoint has nothing for them but trouble. 

Standing up in his seat to peer over the windshield and the long line of cars, Prompto asks, “Are we seriously doing this?”

“We can’t do it,” Gladio says. “It’d be suicide.”

“So we go around,” Ignis says firmly, spotting a path just ahead that curves around past the checkpoint and into a tangle of half-built buildings. He turns the wheel, urging the Regalia off the beaten path and onto the dirt road. Silently, he apologizes to His Majesty’s car, hoping that the dirt won’t harm the car too much. The car rolls away from the checkpoint without any sort of indication that they’ve been spotted by the troops at the gates; Ignis isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or not.

“Good eye,” Gladio says, and he leans his head out past the edge of the car, peering back the way they’d come. “They’re not following us.”

“Wish they would,” Noct mutters. “I’d-”

“Let’s try not to bring the whole Niflheim army crashing down on our heads,” Gladio interrupts tersely. “Stop the car, Ignis; I don’t want us bringing her any closer to those buildings. They could have snipers.”

“Snipers,” Prompto repeats, and despite the tremor in his voice, there’s a touch of awe. “Wonder if I could get my hands on one of those.”

Ignis pulls off the path and parks the car, setting the parking brake just in case something tries to drag the Regalia away. “If we encounter any troopers there, I’m sure that can be arranged. We certainly won’t be letting them occupy Lucis without a fight, and I doubt they’ll be receptive to us. They’ll need to be taken care of.” He’s not sure why he’s saying  _ we _ when he can hardly get himself to draw a weapon against an enemy. Gentiana’s words from his dream echo in his mind, reminding him of the duty that the gods have outlined for him. He shakes his head to clear the memory from his mind; he can’t have any distractions.

“Sounds like a plan!” Prompto chirps. His optimism, while jarring, is almost a relief, especially when the living stormcloud of Noctis sits behind Ignis, emanating enough fury to move mountains.

“What can we expect to see up there?” Ignis asks Gladio, and before he unstraps he casts his mind into the armory, taking stock of the weapons there. If they’re about to go into a war zone, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.  _ Dagger, dagger, spear, flask, Trident- _

Wait.

Trident.

He doesn’t pull it from the armory, not when he’s in the car like this and he has no idea of what it would do to him or what he could possibly do with it. But he can sense it in the armory, tucked away in his own corner where nobody will ever find it, shrouded in the golden light of his calling. When he concentrates on it, he hears the faint music of his mother’s lullabies, singing songs she promised would shake the earth and wake the gods.

His birthright.

So Gentiana wasn’t just a dream. The darkness wasn’t his imagination, and neither were the Messengers, and the kings, and the thing within the darkness that had seen him and laughed. Even now, his nose twitches at the memory of smoke. 

Or maybe that’s just Insomnia, smoldering away across the water.

“-with the High Commander in charge of them all,” Gladio finishes, stepping out of the car. He shades his eyes, frowning at the distant plumes of smoke in the distance. “It’ll be impossible to fight them all.”

“So we avoid the armies,” Prompto replies. “Iggy, d’you think your brother was there? Would he help get the Nifs out of our hair?”

“Well-” Ignis begins, scratching at the back of his neck nervously.

“Your brother got a fucking promotion, actually.” That’s Noct, bitter and angry, glaring daggers his way. “He’s the High Commander of Niflheim’s armies now.”

Ignis winces. “I had no idea.” It’s not a surprise - wartime promotions are to be expected - but it still hurts to know. He thinks of his brother in Insomnia, surrounded by death. Such irony, really, that Ravus should be the leader of the armies he so despises.

“Rumors so far say that he’s promoted even though he’s sustained some sort of injury,” Gladio adds, stepping between Noct and Ignis. “They keep talking about his valor.”

“An injury?” Ignis repeats. “What sort?”

“They don’t say,” Prompto pipes up, and he holds up his phone to show Ignis. “We don’t have access to all the imperial news since we’re on Insomnia’s network.”

Ignis reaches out to hold Prompto’s wrist, steadying him so he can read the screen. From what he can glean on a quick read-through, something had happened to the old High Commander in an attack by insurgents on the treaty signing, and the Deputy High Commander exhibited extreme valor. In his efforts to protect his emperor and safeguard the city of Insomnia, he had earned his new position and had-

Had-

Risked life and limb.

Ignis stares at the words. They could be mere coincidence, but-

His dream.

Ravus, burning, clutching at an arm consumed by flames.

If the Trident wasn’t merely a figment of his imagination, then-

Ignis swallows. “I see.”

Prompto shifts in his grasp. “Buddy, d’you mind letting go?” he asks quietly.

Ah. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding on so tightly to Prompto’s wrist. Ignis releases Prompto immediately, offering a sheepish smile. “Apologies, Prompto,” he says. As an afterthought, he skims his fingertips along the skin between his glove and wristband, sending the barest hint of healing into his friend. Prompto doesn’t seem to notice, and the golden light is hidden by Ignis’s gloves, so it’s a win for them all. Ignis hardly notices the drain it takes from his stamina.

Prompto puts his phone back into his pocket and summons his pistol, checking the ammo he’s got in it. “We should go,” he says, “while there’s still light.”

“He’s right,” Gladio mutters, and he signals towards the tangle of steel and concrete that’ll hopefully lead towards some sort of vantage point. “Noct, stay behind me. Ignis, you too.”

“I can fend for myself,” Noct snaps at the same time as Ignis sighs, “I’m quite capable, Gladio.”

Ignis glances over at Noct, but Noct’s got his eyes focused straight ahead, fierce and statuesque. The prince - no, the  _ king  _ \- throws his arm out to the side as he stalks after Gladio, and his engine blade materializes in a burst of blue sparks, plucked from the air. It’s unlike him to summon his blade when he doesn’t immediately need it; it concerns Ignis enough that he keeps his distance.

He draws a dagger, though, just in case.

Gladio leads them into the complex of half-constructed buildings, slowly beckoning them after he checks that the coast is clear. Noct strays a little further from the group, ducking into shadows behind fallen girders and collapsed pillars. He’s searching for spots to warp from, surely, planning a surprise attack while Gladio and the rest of them go in from the front. Prompto sticks by Ignis’s side, gun drawn, sidestepping quietly beside him. Ignis welcomes the extra protection, vocal as he may be against Gladio’s efforts to keep him out of harm’s way.

A shot rings out around them, echoing between the buildings.

Ignis flinches.

That wasn’t Prompto.

“You asked for it,” Gladio snarls, and suddenly he is a maelstrom in motion, and magitek troopers burst from hiding places, and they are at war.

Prompto yells a challenge, high and clear, and takes out the nearest soldier with a quick headshot. “Stay close to me, Iggy!” he calls, and he rolls to duck behind cover, popping up to fire off a few quick shots. He scowls when he pops back behind his concrete barrier, smacking at the barrel of the gun as if it’s the problem. He looks up over at Ignis, then hisses, “Cover!”

Ignis nods and makes for Prompto, who lays down some cover fire to get him to safety. He dives gracefully beneath the shockwave of Gladio’s greatsword, narrowly missing certain decapitation. They’ve trained for this, though: this synergy, Ignis understands. The teamwork is what he knows best, and he knows these men almost as well as he knows himself. He slides into cover beside Prompto, who winks at him breathlessly before summoning both pistols, wildly shooting at anything with armor.

“They’re just troopers,” Ignis says aloud, half to himself and half to the others. “Just magitek.” He readies his dagger, takes aim, and throws it before he can stop himself. 

Some part of him must still be resisting the call to violence, because his blade sinks into an arm instead of the chest where he’d been aiming. All the same, the trooper gives a horrible mechanical screech and lurches into motion, running at them at a terrifying speed. Ignis braces himself, summoning the dagger back from the sparking inner workings of the trooper’s arm.

Before the soldier can reach him, blue flashes across Ignis’s vision, and then Noct is there, materializing with a knife slicing across the vital wires in the trooper’s neck.

In a single fluid motion, Noct places the soles of his boots on the trooper’s head, springboards off with enough force to snap its neck, and airsteps, phasing blue through the air before he throws his sword at something high in distant rafters. He disappears into sparks once more, and when Ignis sees him again, he’s materializing at the throat of a high-up sniper, swiftly decapitating it and kicking its body off of its perch. Noct stays up above for a few moments, perched above them all like some sort of raven or angel of death. When Ignis meets his eyes, he can see the force of the blueness, even from this far away.

He shivers.

Then Noct nods to him, draws a spear from thin air, and goes tumbling back into the fray, diving down from above to land in the middle of a swarm of troopers.

Gladio bellows in pain just a few yards to Ignis’s left, surrounded by axemen who don’t hesitate to rain blows on him. Ignis bares his teeth and snarls, “Not today.” He dives away from Prompto’s side, sliding through the dirt and sprinting across the rubble-strewn steps of the compound to Gladio’s side. He places both hands on Gladio’s shoulders and calls forth his magic from the warm place at the center of his heart. He could use an elixir, of course, but he sees no point in wasting Noct’s magic when he has plenty of his own. Regenerating Prompto’s little aches are easy enough; bringing Gladio back to fighting shape is more of a strain on his body. Ignis bears the weight of it all the same, and his golden gloves glow even brighter, imbuing more vitality into Gladio’s body.

The holy light makes the troopers flinch away, giving them a moment to recover. Ignis hadn’t been expecting any sort of reaction like that, and he files the observation away to consider later.

“I owe you,” Gladio tells him, and he summons his shield just in time to bat away an axeman’s strike. 

“Think nothing of it,” Ignis replies, and he raises a newly-summoned spear to catch the blade of an axe on its haft, baring his teeth at the expressionless green mask of the trooper who tried to split him in half. He shoves his spear away, sending the axeman off balance, and draws a knife in its stead.

“Ignis!” Noct yells from across the battlefield. “Instructions!”

Ignis snaps his head up, immediately alert. He scans the battlefield quickly, grinning when he sees a perfect cluster of troopers, lined up just out of melee range, but close enough to warp to. He calls, “On your mark, Noct!”

This is easy. This is strategy.

The daggers fly easily from his hands this time, flying with perfect accuracy to land in the shoulders of his targets.  _ One, two, three, four, five- _

It’s perfect.

Noct’s there in a heartbeat, flashing in and out of existence, trailing blue sparks as he flies from trooper to trooper, burying his blade in each of them as he goes. He follows Ignis’s path perfectly, forcing them to stagger to their knees. Gladio swoops in after him, taking down the weakened soldiers with well-placed slashes to their chests, destroying the cores at their hearts. Each time one bursts into red miasma, Ignis flinches, but he enjoys the show all the same. When he finishes his wild series of warps, Noct grins wildly at him with teeth whiter than crystal.

Ignis’s heart skips, just a bit.

Gunshots burst in his awareness: it’s Prompto this time, dashing from column to column, advancing through the ruins as he clears a path with bullets and flame. “We’ve got them on their last legs!” he crows, ducking behind a crumbling pillar to drop more bullets into his gun. They slide from his fingers and into the cylinder with practiced ease, evidence of his Crownsguard training.

Ignis nods, grinning, and leaps up to a perch of concrete, scanning the battlefield. Magitek troopers level their weapons at him, but none of them draw too close. 

He tosses a few daggers to land in key joints, crippling troopers enough that Gladio and  Prompto can land the killing blows. It’s not real battle, not truly, but he’s doing his part. The wariness of the troopers to attack him only drives them into the reach of Gladio’s greatsword. It’s like he’s bait, but backwards.

“Ignis!”

He’d know that voice anywhere. Ignis follows the sound and turns towards a place higher up on the rubble-strewn slope.

One of the troopers is crouching over Noct, holding on tightly to his neck to keep him pinned. 

 

Noct’s already injured; he can tell as much from this far. He struggles weakly in the trooper’s grasp, clenching his fist around the idea of a sword that refuses to appear in his hands. Ignis isn’t sure he has much time before he succumbs to unconsciousness, or worse.

With the other of its garish, disproportionate metal hands, the MT reaches for its own chest, jerking and twitching with the movement. Its steel fingers scrabble at the reddish core there, finding purchase and dragging the core from its housing. Sparks fly from the core and from the trooper’s chest, and both start shaking, glowing a brighter red.

Noct cries out.

It’s going to self destruct. 

Ignis can’t let that happen.

Not now. Not yet. He is the Chosen, and Ignis must protect his destiny. The gods have ordained it.

The daggers won’t be enough.

Ignis conjures the Trident, takes aim, and throws.

He feels the impact in his bones.

The three prongs of the Trident pierce through the chest armor of the MT, halting it immediately. Even as the trooper crumples into miasma and smoke, screaming out its mechanical anguish, Ignis staggers under the force of the power the blow takes from him. It drains him the way that healing does, but it takes it from his bones, from his muscles; from his soul.

It matters not. Noctis is safe.

“Noct!” he cries, and he takes off running. As the trooper dissolves, the Trident shivers and hangs in the air before falling towards Noct. Ignis reaches out and retrieves it through the armory, calling it back to his hand before it can come anywhere close to hurting Noct. It reappears in his grasp, shimmering bright silver and vibrating faintly with a distant music. Ignis, as he dashes to Noct’s side, realizes that this is the first time he has held the Trident -  _ truly  _ held it - in his entire life.

Maybe it’d be a milestone for another Oracle, in a time of peace. Maybe it would be a rite of passage for an Oracle at war beside a conquering king. Maybe his mother would have congratulated him, and his siblings would have been at his side, and he would have ascended among his people.

But this is the ascension he gets, bathed in rainwater and blood, stranded in the crumbling ruins of a conquered kingdom.

He drops to his knees beside his king and asks, “Are you all right?”

Breathlessly, Noctis nods. He says, with just a touch of awe, “You killed it.”

Ignis breathes out slowly, holding on tightly to the Trident. “I suppose I did.” He holds out his other hand to Noctis. “Are you fine to get up?”

Noct winces and pulls an elixir from the armory before Ignis can stop him, crushing it between his fingers. He immediately relaxes, and some of his visible wounds close up. “I’ll be good.” He lets Ignis pull him up; his fingers linger around Ignis’s wrist just long enough for Ignis to take notice. His dark eyes flicker down to the Trident in Ignis’s other hand. “What the hell is that?”

Ignis looks down at it, then back up at Noct. He can’t quite manage a lie right now. He just killed something. He just killed something. “A trident.”

“Okay, yeah. I see that. Where’d you get it?”

Ignis grimaces. “Would you believe me if I said I got it from a dream?”

“Only because you’d never make up a lie that dumb.” Noct tosses his hair out of his face. It’s starting to rain in earnest now, letting his blood streak in watery rivulets from now-nonexistent wounds. “A dream?”

“I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Noct furrows his brow, studying the Trident, and then reaches out. “Is that-”

Ignis banishes it before Noct can touch it, tucking it away in his own corner of the armory where the magic of the Oracle keeps it hidden. It’s a selfish thing to do, he thinks, but he can’t bear to lose it now that he’s holding the weapon of his mother and his calling. He misses it as soon as it’s gone. “We should keep going,” he says.

“We’re talking about this later,” Noct warns him. For a moment, his presence casts out into Ignis’s part of the armory, exploring without intruding, but he doesn’t push it. Ignis is thankful that he’s letting it be for now.

“So be it.” He hopes that Noct will forget about it.

There’s another horrifying metal scream as Gladio slices through the staggering remains of the final magitek trooper, and Ignis turns to face him. Gladio’s still got blood on his face even though Ignis healed his wounds earlier. The light rain washes it down his cheeks. Gladio lets go of his sword and shield, and they disappear before they hit the ground. “That took too long,” he mutters, stalking up the incline towards them. “Prompto, you good?”

“Just fine!” Prompto calls, darting out from a cluster of rusted girders. He’s not half as bloody, and for that, Ignis is thankful - Prompto know how to stay out of the way. “Do we move on?”

Something rumbles in the air beyond the little gulch they’re in, shaking the air. Ignis shudders, but it’s not from the cool rain trickling past his collar.

“We move on.” Noct takes off, jogging up the grassy slope.

Ignis and the others follow, and the rumbling only gets louder. They emerge onto an open clearing at the top of the hill, looking out over the water and its great steel bridge. Airships of ugly, steely gray fly overhead, rumbling through the air with an ominous music. They’re heading towards the distant city of Insomnia. 

The burning city of Insomnia.

Noct swears loudly. His voice is harsh and low, blending in with the airships above them. 

“Noct-”

“Prompto, don’t act like you can make this any better than it actually is,” Noct snarls. “Look at this!” He throws his arm out to gesture at the smoking walls of Insomnia. “This wasn’t an accident!”

Prompto takes a step back. “I’m not saying-”

Noct turns back to face him. By now, the rain has plastered his hair down against his forehead. It makes him look smaller. Afraid, now, instead of angry. “Prompto,” he says again, urgently. “I just-” He cuts himself off, fists clenching at his sides. “I don’t know what to do.” His wide eyes turn to Ignis and Gladio, darker than the billowing smoke over the water. “Guys. Anything. Please.”

“The news,” Ignis mutters, tugging his phone from his pocket. “There must still be loyalists on the inside. The city is massive.”

“Who’s to say the Nifs haven’t gotten to them yet?” Gladio asks. He shakes his head. “We need eyewitnesses.”

“We can’t just go up to the refugees and start interrogating them, Gladio! They’ve just lost their homes.”

“Then I’m going to see if anyone’s even alive,” Noct  says, and he pulls out his own phone.

“I’ve got the news,” Prompto announces. “Radio.”

“Volume,” Ignis orders.

The tense voice of an Insomnian broadcaster fills the air. It’s familiar in a distant,  nostalgic way, like homesickness. Had Ignis known her once? Had she ever interviewed Noctis? Had Ignis ever seen her face?

How many people had she lost?

_ “-in the wake of the news of King Regis’s death, we’ve now received word that Crown Prince Noctis and the Oracle Lunafreya have also been pronounced dead.” _

“No,” Ignis whispers. He was close, he was  _ so  _ close to seeing her. She can’t have fallen. Not his sister. Lunafreya survived the razing of one city; she could have managed to escape another.

Prompto makes a quiet, pained sound and fumbles to turn off the news. He knocks his phone out of his own hands, though, and he curses quietly, stooping to pick it up.

“Don’t bother!” Noct growls, pacing back and forth on the sodden grass.

Ignis crouches down to pick up Prompto’s phone without looking away from his own. “Niflheim lies,” he says aloud, though he’s not sure who he’s convincing. He holds the phone out to Prompto, nodding to acknowledge Prompto’s whispered thanks. “Noct, we can’t know for sure-”

“We’re about to.” Noct raises his phone to his ear, still pacing. There’s static in the air, like encroaching thunder, but it’s not coming from the pale gray clouds above them. “Hello? Cor?” Noct asks after a few moments, and his voice is immediately on the edge of trembling. “What the hell is going on?”

Dread grows in the pit of Ignis’s stomach; the smell of smoke is so, so strong. The sound of Noct’s panic disappears into the back of his awareness, replaced only by the sound of the gunships roaring overhead. Ravus could be in one of those airships, or Luna. If Ignis had stayed in Tenebrae, maybe he’d be with them, a pawn to Niflheim’s agenda. Maybe he would have been in that city; maybe he would have been on the news.

At least it’s Cor on the phone. Cor must have been there. Cor must know how to get out of this, and he must have saved the king or their country; there must be a bright side to this. Ignis left with Noctis so that Cor could stay in the city; maybe it helped. It had to have helped.

Noctis gasps and stops short, looking out at the distant city. Ignis feels the force of his pain through the connection of the armory, ringing with the power of kings. He bows his head.

_ King Regis,  _ he thinks,  _ I’m so sorry. _

Noct hangs up.

In the silence that follows, nobody’s quite willing to look at anybody else. Ignis musters his courage and asks, “Noct. The Marshal - what did he say?”

Noct’s voice is hollow. “Said he’d be in Hammerhead.”

“And the king?” Gladio asks, and Ignis hears what he doesn’t say as well:  _ and my father, and my sister, and- _

Noct doesn’t reply. 

The silence is damning enough.

Ignis sends a prayer to whichever god or Messenger might be listening, begging for some sort of mercy. Mercy for the king, for Gladio’s family, for the Council and for Prompto’s parents and for the city of Insomnia. And a quieter prayer, more desperate, for Lunafreya and for his brother turned High Commander, blood of the Oracle far from home.

In the distance, over the hum of airships and the soft constancy of the rain, he thinks he might hear a raven cry out. It sounds like mourning, striking a chord that reminds Ignis of a hymn he’d once known.

But maybe it’s just a bird.

“Come on,” Ignis says quietly, turning away from the sight of the burning city. The smell of smoke and terror is acrid in his nose. “He’ll be expecting us.”

Cor, yes, but the others as well: the slumbering gods he knows he must wake, the thing at the center of the darkness, and whatever monstrosity they’d met at Galdin Quay. Somehow, Ignis has a feeling they won’t be getting to Altissia any time soon.

He flexes his hand, aching for the comfort of the weapon of the Oracle. It’s not safe to have it out now - it’ll take away any hope of anonymity, and he’s not sure he wants to discuss it with Noctis or the others. But he craves its gentle music, anyway, if only to soothe the frantic beating of his heart. The blood on his hands has long since washed away, but he can’t stop thinking about the trooper he killed. What if that had been a person? An animal? A living thing, instead of a robot?

Gentiana told him he needed to do what it took to protect this Star. To stand by Noct’s side, to fight; to be the Oracle he was born to be.

That’s what he’ll do. He’s not sure how, but he’ll do it. Noctis and the others need the Oracle now, and they need Ignis to be that person for them. He can wake the gods and fight their battles, slaying creatures even as he saves the lives of others. 

They make for the car. None of them are quite sure what to say. 

Ignis catches Noct’s wrist before they get too close to the car, letting Gladio and Prompto scope out the perimeter before either prince steps out into the open. “Noct,” he says quietly, urgently. 

Noct twitches out of his grasp, but he stays put. “What?”

“I hope you don’t think-” Ignis pauses to compose himself and his thoughts. “Noct,” he tries again, “I hope you know that I had no knowledge of this, despite my relation-”

“I know,” Noct interrupts shortly. His eyes are still burning, but there’s more pain in there than rage now. “Look, I know that Ravus-” He looks away, biting his lip, before he says, “I know that he hates my family. But I also know that he hates the empire. I don’t know what to think.”

“You need only know that you have my unwavering support. That is what I can assure you with absolute certainty.” He’ll give Noct whatever he can.

“Ignis.”

“You’re the king now,” Ignis tells him, “and I am your Oracle. We will see this through to the end, and we will reclaim Lucis. You have my word, Noctis.”

“The king,” Noct repeats, and he makes a quiet, disgusted sound. “They played my father for a fool.”

Ignis hesitates a moment, then says, “Your father knew what he was doing, Noct.” It was the wrong thing to say: Noct’s eyes go glassy, and he bites his lip, averting his gaze. Desperately, Ignis tries to recover. “I’m not the kind of Oracle with a good bedside manner, Noct, I’ll admit. But I will say that I feel your father’s loss...greatly. With great sorrow.”

The dark blue of Noct’s gaze flicks back to him from beneath rain-soaked hair. “Thanks,” he murmurs. Then, eyes widening, he adds, “Specs, listen, about Luna-”

“She’ll be fine. I’d know if she’d...well. You know.” Gentiana would have shown him. The blood of the Oracle is not so easily spilled. 

“That trident, though…” Noct raises an eyebrow at him. “Was it-”

“I’m not sure what to call it,” Ignis replies quietly. It’s not an entire lie, really. “Later, though. This isn’t the place.”

“You’re right. We need to get going,” Gladio tells them, walking up to them. “We need to get far away from here before they get an eye on this car, or on Noct. Or gods forbid, on both of you.”

Ignis sighs. Prompto’s just a short distance away, leaning against the Regalia and keeping an eye on the path to the checkpoint. It won’t be long until the Niflheim army realizes that their guards on this section of the gulch haven’t checked in for some time. “Yes. Of course.” He holds his hand out expectantly.

Gladio eyes him for a moment. “You good?” he asks.

Ignis knows what he means: he can feel how panicked he must look, despite his careful efforts. He’s never been one for stoniness, and he knows his grief weighs heavily on his shoulders. But he knows Gladio’s tells just as well, and he knows that if he is worried about Iris and the Amicitias, then Gladio’s concern must be tenfold. He reads the creases in Gladio’s brow and raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Point taken.” Gladio drops the keys to the Regalia in his hand. “Get us home safe.”

Ignis winces. “Home,” he echoes. “How about Hammerhead?”

A shadow crosses Gladio’s face. “That’ll do.” He puts a hand at the small of Ignis’s back, urging him towards the car. “Noct. We’re moving.”

“Right.” Noct moves into motion once more, though it looks like he may have wanted to say something more. They’ll have time for that later. 

Carefully, he takes Ignis’s hand.

Like when they were children. 

Again, as in the tent, it feels foreign to do this outside of Insomnia, as if they’ve woken up from an impossible dream and have only now realized what reality is like. It feels forbidden. It feels wrong. They’re the king and Oracle now; they don’t have the luxury of indulging in childhood comforts.

Ignis tolerates the touch just the same, though, subtle and comforting. It keeps him grounded, and when he gets behind the wheel of the Regalia and turns on the ignition, his hands don’t shake. He doesn’t think about the battle quite as much, and the dying scream of the trooper is fainter in his ears. Ignis glances at the rearview mirror: there’s Noctis, watching him carefully, tragic and royal. Beside him, Gladiolus, stern and smart and trying to hold it together. And next to Ignis, Prompto waits, still holding a pistol in his lap, eyes darting around to keep them safe. 

And here’s Ignis, staring at his reflection. The Oracle.

_ I can do this. _

He takes them through the rain towards Hammerhead, and he prays for peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	6. retaliation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis begins on his quest towards kingship. Ignis makes Poor Decisions.

There was nothing for them in Hammerhead but grief.

They make it to the hunters’ prairie outpost before dusk. By the time they’re deep enough into Leide, the heat of the sun burns away the clouds and moisture, letting them keep the roof of the Regalia down. Ignis is thankful for that. He’s not sure if he would have enjoyed being in the enclosed space of the Regalia with four people’s worth of grief. The wind in his face is a welcome comfort.

Still, it takes a long time for the smell of smoke to disappear from the air. 

Ignis is just relieved to see people other than terrified Insomnians. From here, making his way down the dirt road to the outpost, he can see men and women alike dressed in somber brown clothing that must be something like a uniform. It’s not the polished efficiency and style of Crownsguard gear by any means, but Ignis can see where the hunters got their inspiration. 

“What is this place?” Prompto asks, leaning forward in his seat. His fingers tap out a restless rhythm on the car door. “Looks like a dump.”

“It looks  _ functional,”  _ Gladio corrects as Ignis pulls into a parking space - or, rather, a patch of dirt where it looks acceptable to park. “The hunters do good work from here, apparently. They’re all that’s left of Keycatrich.”

“Because of the war?” Prompto asks.

Gladio nods grimly; Ignis catches the way his eyebrows crease in the rearview mirror. “Because of the war.” There’s a certain kind of poison in his tone that sounds like grief.

“It’s said that there are tombs out here,” Ignis adds. “Royal tombs, unharmed by Niflheim’s advances.”

“Think that’s where Cor is?” Prompto asks.

“There is a chance, yes. The Marshal may have come up with a plan.” Ignis recalls the scores of kings standing behind Noct, spectral and glowing. The reminder of his dream is enough to make him shudder. “We’ll just have to track him down.” He turns off the Regalia. “Everyone out.”

“Yes, sir,” Gladio intones, and he waits until the rest of them have left the car before pointing towards the largest of the structures - not that there are many of them. “C’mon.”

The hunters stare at them as they walk into what must be the base of operations. Ignis is sure they must make an intriguing sight: three young men in Lucian black uniforms and one in blinding white and gold. Some of them whisper among themselves; others bow in a stilted, nervous manner that suggests that they’ve only ever heard rumors of how to salute a king. Still others glare, though whether they’re directing their ire at Noct or Ignis is anyone’s guess. One man spits at their feet as they pass. Ignis can feel Gladio bristle beside him at that, but thankfully he doesn’t make a scene. They need these hunters on their side; Gladio’s aware of it just as Ignis is, ever the tactician, and so he tolerates the disrespect for now. 

Of all the people here, only one person really stands out: a woman in royal black. The almost casual look of it is deceptive. That uniform is not one easily earned. Ignis knows that better than most, just as he knows the woman who wears this particular uniform. He knows her as a soldier, spy, and friend. 

“Monica,” Gladio says, stepping towards her. “You’re okay.”

Monica’s lips turn up into a hint of a smile. “I’m quite all right, Gladio, thank you.”

“How many made it out?”

She shakes her head. “Not enough.” In anticipation of what she must know Gladio is about to say, she says, “I’ve heard from some of my informants in Lestallum. Refugees on foot and by car are making it into the city. Dustin tells me that the Hesters and your sister came in late last night.”

Gladio’s entire posture shifts as his shoulders slump into a sigh. His face is so open, so grateful, that it nearly takes Ignis’s breath away. Ignis isn’t quite sure he’s ever seen Gladio look this happy. “She’s safe,” he breathes. “The Hesters - Talcott, too?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Gladio rubs at the back of his neck. “I - that’s good news. Good news.” He smiles. “Thank you, Monica. I owe you big time.”

Monica returns the grin. Her smile is softer, and tentative as well; it’s not often that Ignis has seen her like this. But it suits her. She turns to the rest of them and says, “I know you must be busy, Your Highness.”

Noct nods, folding his arms. “Heard from Cor?”

“The Marshal is waiting for you at the royal tomb. He insists that you hurry.”

“Then we won’t keep him waiting,” Gladio says, and he puts a hand on Noct’s shoulder. His other hand finds Prompto’s back, prodding him in the direction of a nearby path. “Let’s go.”

“Lord Ignis,” Monica calls before Ignis has gotten too far.

Ignis turns; it’s been several days since he’s heard the title. It sounds foreign out here and away from the strict order and elegance of Insomnia. But it’s familiar enough to catch his attention, so he smiles gently and asks, “Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re safe as well. Insomnia remembers both of its princes.”

Ignis nods to acknowledge her before he catches up to the others. He doesn’t quite have the heart to tell her that he was never Insomnia’s to keep.

The trek to the tomb is largely silent. Prompto asks him about Cor, and Ignis retells a few small anecdotes of his own training beneath the Marshal. Prompto’s own Crownsguard training had been beneath Lord Clarus’s direct supervision in order to ensure that he would be a proper companion for Noct, and so Prompto had gotten precious little time with the legendary Immortal. But the conversation doesn’t last for long, and it hurts to talk about Insomnia and the time  _ before  _ when they all know what they just saw across the water. 

There’s a curious spring to Gladio’s step now, though. It’s not as if his grief has disappeared, of course: his father still lies somewhere within the Crown City, and their home has been razed. But he holds his shoulders a little higher, and he walks a little more quickly, urging them forward. Ignis is entirely content to follow behind him; he’s just glad to see his friend has recovered enough to take the lead once more. This is Gladiolus with a purpose.

But they make it to the tomb, and the world turns somber around them again.

He sees Cor, and his heart breaks.

There are different ways in which people wear their grief. Cor the Immortal wears his with such confidence that it almost masquerades as strength. Still, Ignis recognizes the way his jaw clenches when he catches sight of Noctis, and how tightly he’s holding onto the stone edge of a king’s final resting place.

His pale eyes fix on Noctis with something approaching reverence, though. “At last, Your Highness.”

“Cor. Mind telling me what I’m here for?”

Cor gestures to the stone bier where the carved effigy of a king lies. “For the power of kings, passed from one ruler to the next. It is your duty to accept it in order to rise as king.”

Noct shakes his head, muttering, “King of what?”

Ignis winces; beside him, Gladio and Prompto make twin noises of shock. It’s true, of course: the monarchy is shattered, and the empire likely holds every object of power belonging to the Lucians. But to hear even the prince acknowledge the reality of their defeat strikes a part of Ignis he’d not yet realized was grieving for the city that raised him.

The Marshal growls, “Now is not the time to question your calling. A king rises to protect his people. Even after the Fall, Lucis lives on in its citizens.”

“And my father sacrificed those citizens,” Noct retorts, “for the sake of one prince.”

“How long will you remain the protected? Just as Ignis took up the mantle of Oracle when his mother died, so must you become the king of Lucis. The king entrusted the role of protector to you.”

Noct snarls, “Why didn’t he tell  _ me  _ that? Why did he stand there smiling as I left?” He slams his hand down on the unyielding stone of the bier. “Why-”

Ignis bows his head. His lie from the time of the fall comes back to him, taunting him with the sound of his own voice.  _ We had no way of knowing.  _ He should’ve figured it out; he should have seen the truth behind the desperation in King Regis’s eyes. 

Softly, Noct asks, “Why did he lie to me?”

Cor heaves a sigh. When Ignis looks at him, he notices the darkness beneath the Marshal’s eyes. More people were affected by the loss of the king than just the prince and Oracle, clearly; Ignis supposes that he’s forgotten that soldiers like Cor know how to mourn their dead. “That day, he didn’t want to be the king to you. He wanted to be your father.”

“And now that he’s gone, all I know is what he did as a king. A father would have told his son what to do. He wouldn’t have left me in the dark.” 

_ A father would have told his son about the truth of his prophecy,  _ Ignis thinks bitterly.

_ So would a friend,  _ his own voice reminds him, traitorous and unwanted and  _ right.  _

Ignis scowls and pushes the thought from his mind. The gods would not lead him astray. Noct will learn in his own time. Gentiana would not lie to him. He’s doing what’s right, and he’s not forgetting who he is. The Oracle serves king and gods alike. 

Cor sighs. “His Majesty did what he thought was right. So did everyone in the Citadel that day.”

Gladio winces beside Ignis. Ignis leans toward him to offer him the mercy of touch; he wishes that he had magic to cure Gladio’s grief.

“But now I’m here,” Noct says. “So what do I do now?”

“It will be a difficult journey,” Cor warns. “Without the Crystal and without the Ring, your ascension is incomplete. You must gain the power of kings yourself.”

“How?”

“With this.” Cor gestures at the stone effigy of the king once more. Now that Ignis is looking closely, he sees the silvery sword clenched in the king’s hands, shining with impossible clarity even in this dark tomb of aging stone. “Obtaining a Royal Arm entails a fusing of souls. You bind your soul to that of the king whose weapon you bear.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“No,” Cor replies solemnly. “You don’t.”

Noct steps forward. He lets out a soft breath that hints at trembling, but then he holds his hand out over the effigy of the long-dead king. For a moment, it feels like the very air is being pulled from the room, leaving them all breathless. Then the armiger glows warm in his heart, and the sword rises up into the air, turning an iridescent, crystalline blue that draws all the light in the room to it, turning everything else dark around it. It hangs in the air, impossible and beautiful, and then it turns in the air, facing Noctis.

And it descends.

The sword strikes Noctis in the chest, point-first, piercing through him and bursting into light. Ignis expects to see the dark spray of blood from either an entry or exit wound, but no evidence remains of the blow. Instead, Noct falls back a step, knocked backward by the force of the sword. Shards of crystal hover and spin in the air around him. They’re not quite like the sparks that appear with the summoning and banishing of regular weapons to the armory; somehow, they’re more solid, and they linger long after the light has dissipated. Ignis is tempted to reach out and grasp one in his hand, if only to know what it feels like to encounter the soul of a king.

It’s funny, Ignis thinks, that Noctis only gains more parts to cobble on to his soul, while Ignis is duty-bound to give himself away, piece by piece.

His chest aches where ice has replaced a fraction of his golden light. In time, even the ice will go away, whenever he decides to surrender Shiva’s blessing to Noctis. He’s not sure what will become of him then.

Noct holds his hand to where the sword disappeared into his chest, eyes wide. He’s silent, staring at the face of his ancestor. Something shines in his eyes that might be grief.

Gladio and Prompto lower their heads, closing their eyes. Ignis does too, if only because he doesn’t think anyone should have to bear witness to the tears of a king. This is a private moment.

Maybe they’re mourning.

“Come on,” Cor says, breaking their reverent silence. “There are more kings for you to meet.”

Noct raises his eyes to meet Cor’s; they’re brighter than usual, as if the acquisition of the Sword of the Wise granted him additional vitality. Ignis doesn’t doubt it; he wonders if Noctis hears the sound of his family’s songs now too.

Did the Lucian warriors even have hymns? Was Noctis ever soothed to sleep with the music of his forebears, or has he only ever known the silence of steel?

“Let’s go,” Noct says roughly, and he turns from the altar, brushing past Ignis and the others to break out into the sunlight.

Cor sighs and shakes his head, but he follows into the daylight, beckoning for the others to follow. He jogs to catch up with Noctis, then forges even further ahead, likely acting as a guard for them all; already, he’s summoned the katana that is as familiar to them all as his name, holding it sheathed at his side as he prowls further ahead. Prompto and Gladio chase him; Prompto taps him on the elbow as he goes past, and offers a similar light touch to Noct’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything beyond that.

Ignis catches up to Noct, angling his head towards him to ask, “Are you okay? Did it hurt?” He flexes his hand at his side, preparing a small burst of golden light.

Noct scowls. “Not enough.”

Quietly, Ignis says, “Noct.” He tries to ignore the way his heart lurches. The magic fades from his fingertips.

“I mean not a lot. Slipped up.” Noct peers at him past his fringe of hair, waiting.

And Ignis almost calls his bluff.

He doesn’t.

“An honest mistake,” he says smoothly. “We’ve all had a long day.” Still, though, he wonders if the pain will be the same with every Royal Arm Noct obtains. Will it hurt when the Trident is added to his armiger at last? Will Ignis be the one to sheath it in his chest?

Noct looks sidelong at him, narrowing his eyes until they’re just slivers of late-night sky. He nods, though, and he doesn’t break away from Ignis, so Ignis counts it as some sort of victory. He’s not quite sure what sort of battle they were fighting.

There are soldiers waiting for them in the ruins Cor takes them to, and it’s another vicious battle for them. Ignis doesn’t dare summon the Trident this time; every time he considers it, he can see the magitek trooper crumbling atop Noct’s body. He uses his daggers and spear instead, sticking by Cor’s side and offering support. Cor does more than enough to pick up his slack, giving Ignis an excuse to offer healing and magic without dealing too much damage. Gentiana’s order from his dream floats in his mind, though, and Ignis grits his teeth around guilt and throws a dagger or two whenever Noctis calls to him. He knows his duty.

It’s all non-lethal damage.

Small rebellions.

When the battle is done, Cor leads them around the crumbling foundations of old buildings and into a corridor of rock that rises around them, funneling them towards an opening carved into the rock face of the cliffs that surround the ruins.

Gladio asks, “What was this place?”

“Keycatrich Trench.” Cor frowns at the yawning black maw into the ground. “The citizens of Keycatrich used it to take shelter back when the Nif threat was still just a nuisance. War ruined it all, though.”

“What happened to them?”

“Same thing that happened to the town. They were destroyed. Some made it out. Some died in their homes rather than flee. Some went into the tunnels and never came back.”

“So we’re going into a bunker full of corpses.” Gladio shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Corpses,” Prompto repeats, and he shivers. “Did you really have to phrase it like that, Gladio?”

“One of those corpses is the one you need,” Cor reminds them. “Keycatrich is a holy town. Or it was. To have the Wise and the Conqueror buried so close was a huge honor.”

Ignis runs a hand along the rough-hewn rock of the bunker entrance. “I suppose when you can’t get regular visits from the Oracle or Messengers…”

“A god-king is enough,” Gladio finishes. He steps up beside Ignis, folding his arms. “What d’you think, Iggy? Safe to go down there?”

“It’s up to Noct.”

“You think?”

“I’m not the king here, Gladio. I’m merely a companion. I can help with strategy and healing, but not much more.”

“That, and the danger sense.”

“Danger sense?” Cor asks sharply.

Ignis groans internally. “I - Yes. Yes, I suppose I may be able to sense the presence of…” He searches for the right word, then settles for: “unsavory sorts. Daemons?” Slowly, he turns on his heel to look Cor in the eye. “Part of the abilities of the Oracle, I presume.” So he can sense a ravaging sickness and the creatures that lurk in unlit places; it’s not the most important revelation of the day, he thinks. Oracles have always been tied to their lifelong enemies.

Cor studies him critically, then he huffs in something like defeat. “Don’t let any of the hunters hear that, or they’ll never let you off a leash. Daemon-sniffing people aren’t exactly a gil a dozen.”

“They won’t get anywhere near him,” Noct says, breaking his stony silence. “Don’t worry.”

“We’re here for Ignis  _ and  _ Noct,” Prompto insists. “Promise, Marshal.”

Cor’s eyebrows draw together, but he sighs anyway and waves them towards the tunnel entrance. “In you go, then. Be safe.”

“We always are,” Gladio promises, “and they always will be, if I’m with them.”

Cor nods sharply. “See to it that they are.” He turns to Ignis and gives a short salute and bow. “Until we see each other next. Highness.” He bows to Noct. “Majesty.”

Noct flinches at Ignis’s side. “Cor,” he says in reply, but it’s hollow.

The Marshal turns on his heel and marches out into the ruins of Keycatrich, leaving the four of them at the entrance of what could very possibly be a death trap.

They descend into the darkness.

At this point, Ignis should begin expecting what comes next.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. There’s the headache once more, unavoidable and dreadful. Chills run up and down his spine, reaching closer and closer to his heart with every pass. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says quietly, bracing himself against the wall of the tunnel, “but I’m afraid I can’t quite ignore this.”

The others stop and turn towards him; Ignis winces when their flashlight beams hit his eyes. “Specs?” Noctis asks, and he inches closer.

Ignis holds up a hand to stop his advance. “There’s something in here,” he grits out. “Something terrible.” Too many things to count. It’s the world at night time, but it’s all down here with them. There’s no light to help them until they get out of here, and Ignis is not about to have them turn back and refuse the power of kings for his own comfort. He’ll be fine.

“Do we turn back?”

Ignis shakes his head. “No. We move on.”

“Ignis, if you’re sensing something-”

“Darkness. Daemons. It’s to be expected. I’ll get used to it.” It’s only been a few days since leaving the Wall. The oppressive darkness will stop weighing on him eventually, and perhaps one day he’ll stop having the urge to  _ heal.  _

Until then, well, he’s not going anywhere. Trial by fire, and all that.

He summons his daggers just so that he’ll have something to hold onto, flipping them in his hands until the grip feels right. “I’m ready to go,” he insists.

The tunnels are empty save for a few goblins that leap out into their path, grabbing at their pockets for anything they can steal. Ignis kicks them away and into the warpath of Gladio or Noct, calling out to Prompto to watch out for any that may try to attack them from behind. The little monsters keep messing with the generators down here, turning the lights off over and over. It’s frustrating, but at least it gives them an idea of where the things are hiding out.

They go deeper.

“No bodies,” Prompto points out. “Guess everyone walked out alive, huh?” He gives a nervous little laugh. 

Ignis frowns. “Something like that.” He’s not sure what it is, but the lack of bodies sends a chill down his spine. 

The headache becomes easier to ignore the longer they’re down here, but he never quite stops being hyper aware of everything that lurks down here. He wonders what would happen if he indulged his heart’s yearning and poured some of his golden light into a daemon. When he looks into the terrifying eyes of the arachne they’re slaying, though, he finds that he doesn’t entirely want to.

It’s for the best, he supposes. He needs to keep his strength up for Noct’s sake.

They find the tomb just beyond the arachne, which must have been drawn in some way to its shining doors of metal and stone. Noct unlocks the doors with the key Cor had given him, pushing them open to reveal a tomb much like the last one. Without the sunlight streaming into it, though, the place looks cold and sad, forgotten far beneath the earth with only daemons for company instead of subjects.

This weapon is an axe. It’s far more unwieldy than most of the weapons Noct tends to favor in combat, larger than one of his greatswords by far. It rises up in the air, though, with the same magical grace that the Sword of the Wise did, spinning for a breathless moment in the air. Noct’s eyes gleam in its light, and the half moon blades of the Conqueror’s weapon strike his chest with the force of a warrior king.

Another soul.

“I’m leaving,” Prompto announces once the crystalline shards have disappeared. “We should get out to where we can actually see the  _ sky.” _ He turns on his heel and trots out of the room. “Leaving!” he calls over his shoulder. “Now!”

“He’s right. This place gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here,” Gladio mutters, and he turns and follows Prompto out into the labyrinth of tunnels.

Noct hangs his head a moment, but then he sighs and says, “C’mon, Ignis,” and makes for the door.

“I’ll be but a moment,” Ignis replies quietly. He doesn’t quite want to leave this place yet. 

Noct’s footsteps pause with a scuff of boots on stonework, but then he says, “Fine,” and leaves.

Once he’s alone, Ignis stares at the stone face of the Conqueror, then up at the shadowed statue of the woman in the back, watching over him. She must have been an Oracle. Ignis steps around the bier to walk up to her, staring at the impassive lines of her face. Maybe his mother would have recognized her; she’d always told him the importance of learning their history, and Ignis had been eager to learn. They’d never gotten the chance to look at the history books together, though. 

This one must have been at peace with the art of war, to have served beside the Conqueror. This must have been one of the great Oracles of history, wielding the Trident and the power of the gods to lead Eos into a new era of light.

Ignis conjures the Trident of the Oracle and holds it up to her. The Royal Arm glows faintly, casting stark shadows into the hollowed eyes of his ancestress. It’s beautiful, he thinks, and regal. This woman was the queen of Tenebrae once.

“And look how far we’ve fallen,” he tells her. “I don’t even know your name.”

She watches him from her pedestal, silent and cold.

Ignis hangs his head. He supposes she wouldn’t be able to answer him anyway. This is the tomb of a king; there’s nothing here of her for him to latch on to. She gave herself away to the gods and to Eos, as all of the Oracles have done. Ignis must do the same, eventually, if he’s to call himself an Oracle.

“You know that’s a Royal Arm, right?”

Ignis banishes the Trident in his surprise, whirling to see Noct leaning in the doorway to the tomb. “Noct-”

“I’m not going to take it from you,” Noct interrupts, “if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t leave the doorway, but he doesn’t give any indication that he’s about to let Ignis leave either. “When’d you get it?”

“Like I said,” Ignis says. “In a dream.”

“Do you get those often?” Noct asks.

“Yes.”

Noct frowns at him. “But I’m guessing you don’t get magical tridents each time.”

“I’m afraid not.” He almost says more; he almost discusses his dreams of fire and darkness and kings. But Gentiana had been in those dreams, and the thought of the covenant they share makes him hold his tongue for now.

Instead:

“They drain you,” Ignis warns. “The Royal Arms.”

“When’d you find that out?” Noct asks quietly. He conjures the Sword of the Wise, testing its weight. It shines with an unnatural light, dark as it is in the tomb. Ignis watches, transfixed. Noct’s grip is different on this sword, as if he knows the exact way to hold it despite having only just acquired the weapon. Maybe it’s that fraction of the Wise contained in the spectral sword, lending him the knowledge of the wars he’d once waged.

When he finds his voice, it’s soft. He doesn’t dare raise his voice in a place this sacred. “When I killed that trooper to save you. My first-” He swallows and looks away, wishing already for the comfort of the Trident in his hands. “Murder.” It was just a robot. It’s not murder if it’s not alive.

Noct’s silent for a few moments. “I know that’s...hard for you,” he says. “And if it was for me-”

“I don’t regret that part,” Ignis interrupts. He clears his throat. “But the important part is the draining. It hurts to take life. It hurts to use a weapon that’s not entirely your own.”

“A weapon that’s not just a weapon,” Noct finishes softly. “Yeah.” He throws his hand out to the side, and the Sword of the Wise dissolves into crystal once more, casting them back into near-darkness. “Really, though, about battle-”

“I’m handling it,” Ignis says. “Really.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.” He feels the conviction in his voice just as surely as when he’d told Gentiana he was prepared to face a changing world. “Come on, Noct. I think we would do well to see the sun.”

They ascend together, retracing their steps side by side. He doesn’t offer his hand this time, but Noct’s knuckles brush against his wrist anyway, finding his with more frequency than is entirely coincidental. Ignis welcomes the familiarity of the touch, odd as it may feel outside the comforts of home. 

By the time they make it to the surface, the sun has risen once more. Ignis breathes out a sigh; the sunlight clears the weight in his chest and the darkness in his mind. Prompto’s eyes glitter in the light, flashing red-violet, then blue, and then lavender. He points over his shoulder, talking about a statue he’d found of the Founder King, and shows them the picture. Ignis indulges him patiently, making fondly exasperated eye contact with Gladio behind Prompto’s back as the two of them prod Prompto in the direction of the prairie outpost.

Monica points them in the direction of a haven right past the entrance to the outpost. It’s close enough that it overlooks the car, and Ignis feels more secure when he knows that His Majesty’s car is right within reach. Monica assures them that she and Cor will be waiting for them whenever they’re ready to make their first strike against the empire.

Sleep comes with surprising swiftness this time. Ignis hopes this bodes well for the rest of their time out on the road. This time, he doesn’t even bother arguing with Gladio, instead settling in comfortably beside Noct on the hard floor of the tent. The sounds of everyone’s breathing and the sure warmth of Noct beside him help lull him into something approaching a peaceful slumber. No dreams take him tonight, and for that, he’s thankful.

Cor ends up meeting them at the Norduscaen Blockade along with Monica. He takes Noctis with him on a solo mission into the depths of the blockade. Noct, before he squeezes through the tiny opening into the Niflheim base, looks back at them with wide eyes. A flash of the armiger surrounds him for a second, and he swallows. This is his first time going into battle alone. Ignis nods to him, trying to offer the strength that an Oracle owes their king.

Noctis conjures daggers this time, and then he disappears into the blockade.

It’s time for them to make a distraction.

Monica hands Ignis a whole set of magic grenades; the glass flasks clink against each other in Ignis’s arms. “Can you use these for me, Lord Ignis?” she asks. “Help us slow down the Nifs by any means.”

Ignis turns one of them over in his hand, examining it. The thunder spell contained within sends static through his glove and into his skin, resonating through his bones. It’ll pack a punch if it’s used at the right time, incapacitating any soldiers enough that the others will be able to dispose of them with ease. He smiles at Monica. “Certainly.”

Gladio claps him on the back. “That’s our Iggy!”

Prompto summons his pistol and points it up to the sky. “What d’ya say, guys? Time for some fun?”

The spells are practically begging to be used. Ignis tosses a grenade up in the air, catches it, and points to the entrance of the blockade. “It’s been too long since I’ve had some good fun,” he muses. “Destroying imperial property would make my day.”

As it turns out, it does.

They make short work of the troopers stationed outside the blockade. Ignis perches above the battlefield, tossing grenades wherever he can, darting in from above with a spear strike whenever someone needs healing. Monica makes a stellar addition to the team; she’s quicker than most of them, switching weapons with an easy grace that Ignis still can’t hope to achieve.

She’s no Noct, of course, but nobody is.

Ignis likes her all the same.

He breathes a sigh of relief when the blockade doors open to reveal Cor and Noctis, both in one piece. The victory is short lived, though, once an airship descends on the blockade and a too-young officer jumps into a mech to begin combat with them once more.

They win, of course.

Vindication hardly begins to cover the emotion Ignis feels when the magitek armor crumples and falls. He tosses a fire bomb in his hand, idly disappointed that he didn’t get to use it. He banishes it to the armory and regroups with the others. Gladio’s got a few nasty looking wounds on his chest and legs, and Prompto’s bleeding from more than a few bullet holes, but it’s nothing that an elixir or magic can’t fix. Noct’s mostly the same, but he’d knocked himself into stasis more times than Ignis is comfortable seeing. The warping isn’t good for him.

“Your Highness.”

Ignis breaks out of his thoughts at the sound of Cor’s voice, but he doesn’t bother responding until Cor adds in a quiet call of his name. He turns then, offering a small nod of greeting. “Marshal. Apologies; I’m used to Noct being the one with the title.”

Cor folds his arms, studying Ignis carefully. “That you are. I wanted to check if you were doing okay.”

“I’m quite fine, Marshal, thank you.”

“Where will you go now?”

Ignis glances back at where the others are standing, talking quietly with Monica. Even from here, he can see how many wounds this fight has left on them. They need something more if they have any hope of gaining an edge against the empire. “We need to start making covenants.”

“Then let me take you there.” Cor steps forward and lowers his voice. “If you split up, we divide the empire’s attention. I’ve been watching the Nifs, but I made a promise to King Regis.”

Ignis knows what he’s trying to say. “Marshal...”

“You can still come with me, you know.”

“I made a promise as well. To Noct.”

“You can fulfill that promise in safety.”

“I’m quite safe with Noct as it is. And Gladio and Prompto as well.” He flexes his fingers, considering how Cor would react if he summoned the Trident. Maybe Cor would accept that show of power; of competence. Would he ask Ignis to give it up and grant it to Noctis, that it may be absorbed into the armiger of kings?

He doesn’t want to give it up. 

So he holds back his magic and looks the Marshal in the eye. “I am prepared to stand by Noct,” he says. “After all, won’t the gods have more confidence in Noct if he has the Oracle by his side?”

Cor crosses his arms. “Won’t make any difference if the Oracle is dead before he gets to the gods.”

Ignis bristles. Coolly, he asks, “What do you know of Oracles, Marshal? What do you know of the will of the gods?”

Cor’s eyes flash pale blue, reflecting the sky and clouds and distant threat of war. “I think if you have any hope of surviving beyond the Wall, you have to be ready to suspend your disbelief. I’ve seen things, Ignis, in the caves beneath the earth. Down in the Crag.”

Taelpar Crag, the great chasm where the gods’ war tore the earth asunder. Ignis knows the rumors well enough. “The gods, you think?”

“Doubtful. But something close enough. Unkillable.”

“Speaks to your faith if you’d presume to fight what might have been a Messenger.”

Cor shrugs. “Faith is meant to be tested.”

“Then there is no better test of faith than to put oneself in harm’s way by the side of the king.” Ignis straightens his back. “I will go with Noctis. I will call on the gods when the time is right.”

“And you’re sure you’ll know?”

“I know my calling, Marshal. Do you know yours?”

Once more, the sky gleams in Cor’s eyes. “Be safe, Ignis. That’s all I ask.”

“An Oracle keeps his promises. I’ll be safe.” Ignis, before he can stop himself, reaches out and places his hand on Cor Leonis’s shoulder, staring into his eyes. He musters a bit of his golden light and sends it from his skin to the Marshal’s, and the optimistic part of him thinks that maybe some of the darkness below Cor’s eyes lightens. “Take care, Marshal, until we meet again.”

Cor nods. “Take care, Ignis.” He hesitates, then adds, “And...thank you, Your Highness.”

Ignis smiles faintly. “Such is my duty.”

The Marshal leaves them then, taking Monica with him and promising to keep an eye on Niflheim’s troops. Ignis fetches the car, taking it through the blockade, and as the others pile in, he gets his first true glimpse at Duscae.

It’s beautiful and wide and the greenest place Ignis has seen since Tenebrae.

He loves it immediately.

They don’t make it too far into Duscae before Prompto insists on taking some photographs and Gladio points out that some garula steaks would make for a good dinner. There’s a whole herd of them down a slope, quietly grazing on the long, swaying grass. The four of them sneak up and start mowing through them without much trouble.

The complication appears when the magitek troopers descend on them.

Gladio snarls up at the airship, narrowing his eyes. His hair flies around his face, buffeted by the ship’s motors. “Is this a thing now?” he demands.

“It would seem so,” Ignis sighs, and he readies his spear. 

The garulas they were in the middle of slaughtering squeal and take the opportunity to rush at Gladio and Ignis while they’re distracted. Ignis grunts when one comes just shy of goring him with its tusks, instead grazing his side with its wicked point. He turns with the impact, trying his best to minimize the damage. It sends him flying, unfortunately, and he lands on his hands and knees in the sun-warm grass. 

Ignis looks over his shoulder and gasps, throwing himself to the side to avoid getting stampeded by the garula herd. A few yards away, Gladio’s launching himself back to his feet, throwing his massive greatsword like a javelin at the swarm of magitek troopers that has jumped from the airship’s hold.

Noct and Prompto stand back to back, picking off soldiers one by one. Prompto’s got his tongue poking out from between his teeth, brow furrowed in the particular brand of concentration he only displays in battle. 

Ignis backflips away from the garulas, summoning his spear once more on the dismount. The slash catches one of the beasts on its flank, sending a spray of blood towards Ignis in a splatter of warm, wet heat. Ignis spits to get it away from his mouth and ducks away, running to Gladio’s side. Gladio welcomes him into the rhythm easily enough, and he holds his shield towards Ignis with an expectant, “Help me out?”

Ignis says, “Of course,” and pulls a flask of lightning energy from his pocket. He shatters it against the warm metal of the shield, shivering at the static when it runs through his bones. 

Gladio grins, raising the sparking shield in the air, and slams it down on the ground at his feet. The lightning contained in the steel courses across the ground, arcing out at whatever metal it finds. Ignis grits his teeth when it finds his spear, but the magic is so much a part of him that it hardly harms him. The troopers, though, seize up and scream in their horrible, unnatural, grating voices. Bluish lightning courses between their joints in a hauntingly beautiful light show. “Woo!” Gladio crows. “Let’s keep doing that!”

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Ignis scolds, but he grins and tosses another flask to Gladio anyway. “Be safe.”

“‘Course, Highness. Stay on your toes.”

“As if that was a question.” He swipes out in an arc, knocking a swarm of troopers to their knees, and gasps when the motion sends a wave of pain radiating through his body. He chokes and staggers, tasting iron in his mouth, and stares at his hands. Somehow along the way, he’d traded his usual spear for the Trident without noticing.

No matter.

He rolls away from Gladio, still gripping his ancestors’ weapon in his hand. He swipes the blood from the corner of his mouth and studies the organization of the magitek troopers. The steel music of the Trident fills his head with dangerous wild thoughts, urging him to the war his ancestors began.

_ What if I- _

He pushes his glasses up his nose, steels himself, and leaps into the air.

The dance is familiar this time; he readjusts his weight carefully at the apex of his leap, focusing his weight on the head of the weapon. The balance is different on the Trident, but the song in his bones keeps him from toppling, and he braces himself as he drives the spear downwards to the ground.

He impacts right in the center of a group of troopers, sending a shock wave through them all. The damage is strong enough that it demands a greater price from Ignis than he’d expected; as the armor of the troopers crumples and distorts, Ignis gasps at the feeling of matching blows striking his ribs, assaulting his skin with enough force to bruise and tear.

He falls to his knees, gasping for breath.

Noct runs to his side, stumbling down into a crouch. “Ignis,” he growls, tugging a potion from the armiger and shattering it against Ignis’s chest, “you need to stop doing that.”

Ignis shakes his head, panting. The potion doesn’t heal half of his wounds, but it clears the encroaching darkness from his vision and stops the shaking in his hands. “Had to fight.”

“Use the fucking daggers, Ignis,  _ gods.” _

“I’m the Oracle,” Ignis insists. “The Trident was passed down from Bahamut to my ancestress, and to all the Oracles thereafter.”

Noctis rolls his eyes. “And my ancestors all died and added their weapons to the armiger, but you don’t see me using the Royal Arms like I have a death wish.” His gaze softens, and his frown deepens. “Stay safe, Specs. Please.” His hand stays where it’s pressed against Ignis’s chest, even now that the potion’s effects have long since taken hold. 

“Thank you, Noct,” Ignis says, and he shrugs out of Noct’s grip. They’re still in the middle of a battle. There are troopers and wild creatures running around them, attacking each other and the rest of their party. It’s an absolute mess. 

“Prompto and Gladio have it covered. They’re trained for this.”

“Noct-”

Noctis places his hand on Ignis’s chest again, shaking his head. “For once in your life, Ignis, just take a second and calm down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t need to keep fighting.” Noct looks over his shoulder and seems to scan the battlefield. He calls out to Prompto and holds his fingers up like a gun. “Yeah?”

“Got it covered!” Prompto calls, and he pulls out his second pistol. He spins both in his hands, takes a breath, and launches himself across the grass, firing shots in rapid succession with both guns. He takes out first a garulessa, then an axeman, and then weakens another one enough that Gladio can bash its head to pieces with the broad end of his shield.

There’s only one trooper left.

Prompto looks over his shoulder, grinning at Noct, and holds up his other pistol, lazily aiming it and executing a perfect headshot without even looking.

The battlefield falls silent.

Ignis sighs. “Don’t say it.”

Noct raises an eyebrow at him. “Told you so.”

Ignis groans.

Gladio heads towards them, swinging his sword back into the armory. He frowns at Ignis. “Told you white was a bad idea.”

Ignis glances down at himself. “Ah.” He’s covered in blood. Some of it’s his own, admittedly, but most of it is the steaming, acrid-smelling ichor of the garulas they’ve just killed on this hunt. He suspects that a few of them might have been mutants; his fingers tingle with a phantom chill when he pokes experimentally at the stains. He closes his eyes, focusing on his magic, and he breathes out shakily, letting the magic wash through him on the exhale. It’s probably more of a commitment than he should have made with his magic, especially after using the Trident, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to walk around Eos covered in blood.

He moves to collect some trinkets from the armor of the MTs - perhaps Cindy could use them for her work, or some scrappers might be willing to buy them for a few gil - and tries to ignore the way he stumbles. It must be a subtle enough movement, because Gladio huffs and walks off to discuss something with Prompto. Ignis watches him go out of the corner of his eye before he returns to attempting to pull out the still-glowing core in the center of the MT’s chest cavity. It sends curious sensations up through his fingers, like electricity or a dreadful chill. Either way, the core proves impossible to work around, and Ignis gives up on the attempt.

Black boots come to a halt in his periphery.

Ignis pauses in his rummaging. “Need something, Noct?”

“You were covered in blood.”

“Not mine.” Ignis winces, then admits, “Not all of it, at least.” He lifts his head to look up at Noctis, raising a hand to shield his eyes against the sun. Ah. Noct looks...displeased. “I’m fine,” he insists, rising to his feet. 

Noct looks unconvinced. “You used your magic to clean yourself,” he accuses.

“I do that all the time.”

“It’s a waste.”

Ignis bristles. “I will use the magic however I so please.”

“Not right after draining yourself on the Trident.” Noct stares him down imperiously, which is admittedly impressive given the fact that he’s shorter than Ignis. “You need to keep yourself safe if you want to keep using that thing.”

“I won’t stop using it.”

“Then - Here,” Noct says. He pulls something from the armory in a shower of sparks. “Found this back in Keycatrich.”

“What is it?”

“Bandage. It’s magical, I think. I put it around my wrist and didn’t stain my clothes at all while I had it on.” He holds it out to Ignis.

Ignis carefully puts his hand over Noct’s and pushes the bandage back to him. “Then you should keep it; it’s fit for a prince.”

Noct sighs through his nose, looking at Ignis expectantly.

Ignis holds his gaze for a second before his mind catches up to what he’d just said. “What I mean by that is…” He begs his brain for some sort of explanation. “You’re the one who found it?” he tries hopefully.

“You’re wearing white. I can handle the stains. You...can’t.”

“I can-”

“Not without using magic,” Noct argues. “This is an easier solution. Just take it, Ignis. C’mon.”

He’s won this time. There’s really no way to pull rank to argue around it when they’re both the heirs to fallen nations. Ignis shrugs out of his jacket, holding it out to Noct, who takes it with only minimal sighing. He trades it for the bandage, which he wraps around his left bicep beneath the soft folds of his golden shirt. The gauze is gentle on his skin, immediately comfortable. Ignis doesn’t feel any immediate rush of magic, but he supposes just having it there won’t hurt. He flexes the arm carefully, making sure he still has his full range of movement. “It works,” he admits. “Hopefully the magic does too.” He rolls his shirt’s sleeve back down.

“Hey, Specs,” Noct says, still holding on to Ignis’s jacket. “You could go without this sometimes, you know.”

“You think so?” Ignis looks down at his shirt and holds his hand out expectantly. Noct places the jacket in his hands once more, and Ignis drapes it over one of his forearms. “Any particular reason?”

“Well, because-” Noct stops, swallows, and looks away. “It’s...hot. Outside.”

“Take your own advice, then, and Gladio’s,” Ignis tells him. He smiles, slow and easy just like Gladio when he’s about to joke with Noct, and says, “Lose the jacket.”

Noct swallows again. He coughs and says, quite flatly, “Yeah. Okay.” 

Ignis is left standing there, watching Noct catch up to Prompto and latch on to his side. It’s peculiar, to be sure. But Noct’s had a long day. Or a long week. They’re all stressed; humor can’t be expected to land perfectly every time.

Well, if Noct is going to be cagey about it, whatever it is, Ignis won’t pry. 

“It’s hot,” Gladio complains later, trudging up the path towards the Regalia.

Ignis spares him a sidelong glance. “Are you?” he asks lightly. “I find myself to be perfectly cool. Perhaps you could try white?”

Prompto snorts.

Gladio glares at him. “If you weren’t Oracle, I’d kill you.”

Up ahead of them, Noctis laughs. “I’d like to see that fight.”

“What, you have an opinion, Princess?”

“He’d wipe the floor with you.”

“Says who?”

“Says the gods!”

Ignis shakes his head. “The gods don’t make me a weapon, Noct.”

Gladio makes a triumphant noise and claps Ignis on the back. “See?” he calls to Noct, smiling smugly over at him.

“But,” Ignis adds quietly, “they chose me for a reason, after all.”

Prompto laughs. “Yes!” he crows. 

That sets them all to laughing, even Gladio, who blushes a scarlet visible even past his darker skin and mutters that he’s got a legendary bloodline of his own. Noct, through snickers of triumph, insists that if they’re talking about bloodlines, he and Ignis have Gladio beaten. Ignis laughs along, light and easy and casual.

It’s worth it to see their smiles, even if the truth of it is painful.

Already, his covenant with Shiva weighs heavily on his shoulders, far more than it did back in Insomnia. Perhaps it’s because the Wall insulated him from the strain of the connection. Maybe it’s the darkness that’s thick in the air when they fight a nest of daemons, and the way that every bone in Ignis’s body cries out for him to save them. Maybe it’s the knowledge that there is an entire army of god killers on the hunt for them right now.

Or perhaps it’s the encounter with Titan looming on the horizon, and the knowledge that Ignis will have to give a little more of himself away in order to bring Noctis towards his destiny.

The smile fades a bit, and Ignis stops talking, instead just following the others back to the Regalia. Driving gives him an excuse to keep silent, and for that he’s thankful. His head is buzzing far too much with far too many possibilities. Plans for the future, yes, and calculations of how they’re going to execute them. They’ll need to get to Lestallum as soon as possible in order to meet up with Iris and the other Insomnian refugees. Then somehow, they’ll need to get to the Disc of Cauthess and meet Titan to obtain his blessing, if he’s even willing to give it.

Ignis taps his fingers on the steering wheel, hardly paying attention to the road. Maybe he should have gone with Cor after all.

They make it to Alstor Slough, parking the car at the Coernix station not far from it. At least the parking’s free, even if the caravan there sure isn’t. Gladio requests that they head down to the waterfront to search for some source of food that they won’t have to pay for. That suggestion has Noct perking up for the first time in days, and Ignis catches him with his brow furrowed in concentration as they jog down to the water, fingers absently twitching as he sorts through the armory. Once or twice, a lure bursts into existence in his palm before it’s hastily banished again, but Ignis doesn’t miss the excited light in his eyes.

It’s reassuring, really.

Ignis gets the chance to sit and rest at the old abandoned dock they end up finding, dangling his feet over the water and staring out at the rest of Lucis beyond them. They’re quite low at the waterfront, so he can really only see distant cliffs, the blue-green rise of the Nebulawood, and the imposing crystalline mass of the Meteor at the Disc of Cauthess. That’s what holds his attention more than anything, drawing him into reflection while Noct fishes and Prompto takes pictures.

Gladio settles in beside him. He takes his boots off, baring his feet, and he dips his toes into the water. “It’s nice out here,” he points out.

Ignis nods. “It is.” He glances down at the water, marveling at the clarity of it, but again his attention is drawn by the reflection of the Meteor in the crystalline water. He looks up once more, frowning at the distant monolith.

“Something on your mind?” Gladio asks. “You’ve been making that face ever since we left the blockade.”

“Something,” Ignis admits, “though I’m not sure what.”

“Take a load off. Get rid of the shoes.”

That’s probably the last thing Ignis needs right now. He wrinkles his nose. “In the lake?” he asks. “I think not.”

“You’re allowed to relax, y’know. Be a real person. It’s hard to be nobility all the damn time.”

Ignis peers at Gladio, taking in the way that his shoulders are more relaxed than they’ve been in ages, and the way some of the worried lines in his forehead have smoothed out. He really is handsome when he doesn’t worry, Ignis thinks. “You make it seem so easy to just let go of it all.”

“Our duty is important,” Gladio admits, “but we’re only human. Besides, who knows when it’ll be peaceful like this again?” He gestures out at the quiet, faintly rippling water, and at the massive catoblepas grazing in the center of it all. “We have a mission, yes, and we can’t forget it. But why can’t we also enjoy this time we have? I think we all need it.”

“It weighs on you,” Ignis says quietly, “doesn’t it?”

Gladio’s toes trace an aimless pattern through the clear water, disturbing tiny fish that have gathered to investigate the intrusion into their home. “Not sure what you mean.”

“So it does, then.”

“You always been that good at seeing through me, Iggy? Or is that new?”

“Gift of the Oracle,” Ignis teases. He sobers for a moment, then adds, “Gladio, we all feel the pressure in different ways.”

“Some more than others.” Gladio turns and looks at him. He  _ really  _ looks at him. “Sure you’re okay?”

Ignis offers a wan smile. “I’ll be fine,” he promises. And it’s true, mostly. He’s just not sure when.

He enjoys the sunlight for Gladio’s sake. It does feel good to just let himself rest for once, turning his face up to catch the warmth the sun offers. He shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his golden sleeves, leaning back and letting the ambient sounds of Alstor wash over him. Prompto talks idly about maybe tracking down a catoblepas for a picture; Ignis and Gladio forbid it immediately.

Prompto’ll do it anyway, of course, but at least he knows now that he can only ask Noct.

Noct manages to catch a few fish; two of them are too small to be anything approaching a meal, and for that Gladio and Prompto tease him mercilessly, but his skills are commendable nonetheless. The scales could net them a few gil at their next rest stop.

They trek back up towards the car; Ignis eyes the sky uneasily. It’s getting quite dark. He spots a trail of bluish smoke curling into the sky and points it out, so they change directions and head up into the woods, finding a haven nestled halfway up the slope. It’s not far from the road, and it’s got access to the Slough as well, so it’s probably one of their better-situated havens.

“We sleep here tonight,” Gladio says.

“Camp,” Noct says flatly. “Great.”

“Get used to it, Princess. We don’t have the budget to keep staying in caravans or hotels. It’s easier to keep a low profile out here anyway.”

Noct drags his feet setting up the tent, but he doesn’t kick up too much of a fight. Small victories, Ignis supposes.

Ignis makes them something savory for dinner, serving up their hard-earned garula steaks and a few vegetables. He puts in as much magic as he dares, hoping that the effects of the food will last for as long as possible. He doesn’t know when they’ll get another chance to eat like this again. Of course, Noct doesn’t eat the vegetables, but hopefully he’ll still get the benefit of the strength-enhancing magic. They all need to augment their strength if they have any hope of surviving until the covenant with Titan grants Noct additional strength.

_ The covenant. _

Why does it keep coming back to that?

Ignis puts down his fork in his plate, staring instead at the flickering flames of the campfire. 

“Right, Iggy?”

Ignis blinks and looks up. “Prompto? Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Prompto shrugs. “Just wondering about the gods. They don’t just wake up on their own, right?”

So it seems that he’s not the only one with the astrals on his mind. “No,” Ignis replies. “No, they require a bit of prodding, so to speak.”

“Hm,” Prompto hums around a mouthful of steak. “Kinda inconvenient. Thanks, Iggy.”

Ignis waves his fork in acknowledgement and returns to the flames.

They go to bed.

He can’t sleep.

Ignis stares at the canvas ceiling of the tent for long enough that he thinks he might be able to count its threads. 

The covenant.

His bones ache for it; they call him forth to his calling. When he falls asleep - if that’s even possible - he knows he’ll only be dragged back to the images of his dream from Galdin Quay. Darkness, his home burning; Messengers and kings, calling him forth to his duty. The prospect alone has Ignis shuddering. He’s not sure if he can tolerate another morning of waking up to the smell of burning sylleblossoms.

He sits up at last when it’s clear that no semblance of sleep will bless him tonight. Carefully, he tugs on his jacket and shoes, putting his glasses on. On instinct, he gathers everything of his own into his pockets, placing his possessions into his section of the armory, separate from the weapons but still undoubtedly his own.

He’s not quite sure why.

He’s not going anywhere.

Ignis squints out at the entrance to the tent; the moon shines still, so he can’t have been lying here for that long. He has all night if he wants to try to sleep once more, but for now he needs some air. Carefully, he half-stands in the middle of the tent, hunching so he doesn’t jostle the structure, and steps first past Prompto, then Gladio, careful not to disturb either of them. The two of them fought hard today, as did Noct; they deserve a quiet rest beneath the stars.

There’s a stirring in the sleeping bags beside him, and Ignis silently curses whoever chose this moment to get woken up. 

“Ignis?” Noct mumbles sleepily. Of all the people that Ignis had expected to wake up, Noctis was at the bottom of the list. A three person list, sure, but it was a list nonetheless.

Ignis sighs and looks back into the tent. Noct’s eyes are half-lidded and luminous with the stolen silver light of the moon. It’s hard to look at those eyes and turn away, he thinks. “Go back to sleep,” he urges softly, hyper aware of Gladio and Prompto sleeping just inches away. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Noct’s bright eyes blink slowly at him. He nods, half-asleep, and lowers his head once more to the ground. His gaze stays on Ignis for five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen…

“Sleep,” Ignis whispers, and he begs any god that’s listening to aid him here.

Noct’s eyes slip shut.

Ignis breathes out a sigh of relief.  _ Thank you,  _ he calls to whichever divine being had helped him, and he closes the tent flap, leaving his friends peacefully within.

He makes it to the outside of the glowing circle of runes and settles himself carefully down into a sitting position. He hangs his legs over the edge of the haven and stares at the Meteor. It glows bright blue, sending spirals of magic and heat into the starry sky.

Titan’s there, sleeping. 

Ignis needs to wake him. 

He’s not sure how he’ll manage to do it.

He thinks of Cor’s warning, and of Regis’s plan.

Maybe Noct would be safer without him.

They’ll be at Lestallum soon enough, and that’ll hopefully be a temporary haven for them. Iris will be there, and the rest of the members of Gladio’s household, save for his father. They’ll probably be less visible than they would be with someone all in white; maybe Coctura was right about that after all.

Once Ignis wakes Titan, Noct will have the blessing of one of the gods. Maybe before then, he can get one more Royal Arm. Waking gods isn’t easy, or at least Ignis assumes as much. Ignis will be saving them time if he goes ahead; he doesn’t want to risk Noct’s safety if he provokes Titan’s ire in the process of waking him.

So maybe-

Maybe he could do it on his own.

It shouldn’t take that long, and the gods wouldn’t dare harm their Oracle - or so Ignis is assuming. Ignis would be back at Noct’s side in no time, and Titan would grant Noctis the covenant with ease, having already been woken. It could work; Ignis has had worse plans, he thinks.

He can’t quite name any of them right now.

But he’d promised Noct that he’d stay by his side.

But he also has a duty to fulfill.

“Gentiana,” he begs, staring at the sky. “What do I do?”

There’s nothing, not even a snowflake falling from the darkened skies. The chill in his heart remains the same.

She’s silent.

Ignis hangs his head. “Is this a test?” he asks aloud.

There’s not any sort of precedent for this sort of thing. The gods haven’t walked the earth for near on two thousand years. Shiva only just woke in Ghorovas Rift a few years ago. No other Oracle has demanded the full attention of an astral since the one who walked by the side of the Founder King. The Trident won’t offer him any advice save for the same old lullabyes.

Songs to wake the gods, his mother had told him, and Ignis had believed her.

He believes her now.

Ignis runs his finger along the glowing line of a rune, shivering at its answering murmur of dormant magic. The golden light in his heart reaches out to the magic of their star, calling to its sister in the form of the haven. The Oracles of old had built these havens for the protection of all of Eos; Ignis must do something similar if he’s to be the Oracle his people need.

It’s a test.

_ I won’t fail the gods,  _ Ignis tells himself,  _ and I won’t fail Noct. I can serve them both. _

He slips down from the lip of the haven, shuddering when he leaves the protection of the runes, and steps carefully away. The Insomnian-made uniform is made for stealth like this, and it masks every footfall that would otherwise give him away to his friends still asleep in the tent. He looks back, just once, to check if they’ve noticed his departure. The tent sits atop the haven, illuminated by firelight and the blue glow of runes, still and silent. Ignis stares at it for a moment longer, hesitating before he turns away and plunges into the woods.

Just down the slope, he spots something glimmer in the moonlight. It’s bright white, shifting between the tree trunks: Pryna. She waits for him, silent and expectant, and he greets her quietly, bending to meet her when he gets to the bottom of the slope. They’re twin ghosts now, lit by starlight and the moon and the divine light of the Meteor. Maybe this is the gods’ blessing, then. He’s doing the right thing if they’d send a Messenger to join him.

No daemons rise to meet them this time. Maybe it’s the sheer force of their divinity holding back the tides of darkness; maybe not. Regardless, Ignis enjoys the opportunity to experience the Lucian night unhindered by pain for once, even if his mission sends guilt through his heart like a lance.

_ I’m doing the right thing,  _ he tells himself.  _ For Noct. _

Ahead lies the Disc of Cauthess and a slumbering god.

None of them will even notice he’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next stop: titan. here we go, folks.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	7. titan i.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis approaches the Archaean, but the path to divinity is not without its perils.

It takes longer than expected to reach the Disc.

He’s so accustomed to being able to walk through the streets of Insomnia that he’d nearly forgotten how large the world could be. Without the Regalia and without anyone but Pryna for company, the night drags on simultaneously for ages and not for nearly long enough.

He can’t stop thinking about Noct.

The stars shine so beautifully above them. He looks up at them in wonder as he passes between the treetops, picking out constellations old and new. There’s the Hydraean with her sinuous trail of cold, unforgiving blue-white stars; there’s the Meteor’s Tail, a cluster of gleaming white and red. And there are so many others that Ignis has never known. He never could have seen them from Insomnia. Ignis had promised Noct that he’d be with him to see the stars when they cross the ocean together. He can’t help but feel like this is already a betrayal of that.

He stops looking at the ink-dark sky when it starts reminding him of Noct’s eyes, and of the hurt he’ll surely find there when he sees him again.

If he sees him again.

Halfway through the first night, he almost turns back.

This is a fool’s errand. He’d be better off with the others at his side, helping him fight his way to the Disc. There’ll surely be an imperial presence in Cauthess; he won’t stand a chance. Already, his heart leaps frantically at the thought of destroying more troopers. The fires of war still haven’t quite caught on the kindling in his chest; he’s a healer, not a war mage. Leave the dark magic to Noctis, or let Ignis help from the sidelines. He won’t take a life unless he’s forced to.

Which is why he needs the others.

He halts in his tracks, taking a gasping, deep breath of nighttime air. He hadn’t even realized it, but he’s halfway to hyperventilating already. “I can’t do this alone,” he says aloud, looking frantically down at Pryna. “What was I thinking?”

Pryna whines.

Ignis looks back the way he came. He might as well go back. He should.

He’ll be fine.

He should go back.

He almost does.

Instead, he pulls out his phone, typing a hasty message to Gladio:  _ Safe. Continue to Lestallum. You’ll know when to find me. _

He sends it before he can stop himself, staring at the little bubble of text as it tells him it’s been delivered to Gladio’s phone. That’ll work; that’ll soothe their fears. Now they know he’s not been kidnapped, and that he’s not just wandering aimlessly through the wilderness or lying dead in some nameless ravine. It’ll work.

It’ll work.

Ignis stares at his phone.

Oh, it’s a terrible message. What was he thinking?

He disables his location tracking and then turns off the phone completely. His last known location will end up being somewhere below an overpass on the way into the rockier part of Duscae. 

He’ll have a few more hours until they wake up. That, or the message notification will wake Gladio and the hunt will be on. They have the advantage of the car, but he’s been doing his best to stay away from the roads ever since a passing car lit up his white outfit like a flare. They’ll have to go off road to catch up with him unless they somehow manage to figure out he’s on his way to the Disc.

“Come along, Pryna,” he sighs, trying his best to get his breathing back under control. 

Much of the night is spent in a similar way, agonizing over his decision to leave the others behind. Pryna tolerates his crises admirably, and he’s grateful for her support, silent as it may be.

An hour or so past daybreak, he spots a tendril of smoke curling through the sky in the middle of a little stand of trees. He staggers towards it; he hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was from the previous day’s work. Fighting monsters, it turns out, is an incredibly strenuous activity, and it does not pair well with long nights spent hiking through the wilderness instead of sleeping.

“I need to rest,” he gasps out, climbing sluggishly up to the haven. He doesn’t wait for a reply from Pryna, instead dropping to his knees, then turning over to flop onto his back. This haven is secluded enough; he doesn’t think anyone will be able to see a person in white sprawled on a haven in broad daylight. 

Probably. He’ll take his chances.

It’s not as if he has a wealth of options.

He throws his arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “Wake me when it’s almost dusk,” he tells Pryna, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Pryna licks at his wrist and settles down at his side, wrapping herself up beside his head. She’s positioned in such a way that she casts a shadow over Ignis’s face; Ignis thinks she may have done it on purpose. He uses his other arm to scratch appreciatively behind her ears, but even that small movement reminds him of his exhaustion, and he lets himself drift off.

His dreams are sun-dappled this time, a direct mirror to his surroundings. Ignis stumbles down a rocky slope he doesn’t recognize, running towards something he doesn’t understand. He pushes through tight passages and rolls down the slopes, running ever faster. He can’t help but feel like he’s running out of time. Somewhere along the way, shards of blue start emerging from the rock, tearing at his clothes as he rushes past. They must be fragments of the Meteor; he must be close.

Something holy waits for him there, and something tainted by darkness.

He’s not sure which he fears more.

He wakes with a start, eyes flying wide in the late afternoon sunlight of this nameless part of Duscae. He lies there for a moment, staring up at the leafy treetops, letting his heart come back to a normal pace. When he turns his head, Pryna is sitting placidly by his head, watching him with steady blue eyes. She stares at him.

“Hello again,” Ignis says quietly, raising his arm to present his hand to Pryna. She ducks her head beneath it, letting him pat at the crown of her head. “There you are.” He sits up with a little effort, feeling around in his pockets for his dried meat rations. “Would you like one?” he asks, offering a strip to her.

Pryna takes it from him quickly, settling down on the wide rocks of the haven to gnaw on it.

Ignis snorts, “I’ll take that as a yes,” and settles cross-legged on the smooth stone, pulling out some of the meat strips for himself. He chews thoughtfully on one, staring out at Duscae as the bright greens and blues of its landscape turn desaturated with the fading sunlight. It’s not the most pleasant meal he’s ever had, and he doesn’t think it’ll afford him anything in the way of magical benefits, but at least it’ll keep him on his feet. 

When the runes of the haven begin to glow bright blue beneath him, he stands and brushes himself off. “Let’s be off.”

Halfway through the second night, the grass beneath his feet begins to give way to hard stone and rough grass. He’s getting close. He wonders if the others have come looking for him, or if they’ve continued on towards Lestallum as Ignis had asked. He doesn’t dare turn on his phone to check.

When the sun begins to rise, and Pryna licks at his hand, barking out something like an invitation.

Ignis shakes his head. “We must go on,” he insists, pushing past his growing fatigue. If his dream was right, he’s running out of time. There’s something there he needs to see. There’s a god he must wake. He runs the picture over an over in his head, and somewhere along the way the sunlit images of the Disc of Cauthess give way to the familiar fields of Tenebrae.

He blinks.

His old dream. The one from Galdin. Of course.

He puts one foot before the other, forcing himself onward into the dawn, and all he can think about are sylleblossoms burning.

When he comes back to himself, he’s trudging along the road down to the Disc. It’s his first time back on the road this whole time he’s been trekking through Duscae, and he’s nervous about being so far out in the open. Surprisingly, no airships have descended to meet him from the wide blue sky; Ignis wonders if his outfit is really the reason for it. Perhaps the empire truly is only hunting for three young men in black and in the Regalia. Nobody, it seems, spares a thought for a young man in imperial white.

Tenebraean white. It’s Tenebraean. He is wearing the color of his home, not of the empire that stole it from him.

A car horn sounds behind him. Ignis turns swiftly, readying his hand to fetch a dagger if he needs it. Pryna presses up against his leg, silent but steady, and the two of them face down an approaching car. It’s not the Regalia, thank the gods; instead, it’s a rusting old sedan that might have been bright blue once, driven by a tired-looking woman. She leans out her window as she drives up beside Ignis and Pryna. The engine rumbles.

Ignis stares at her. “Can I help you?” he asks carefully.

The woman smiles. “You lost?”

“No.”

“Going to try’n see the Archaean?” She points down the road. “Nifs have it blocked up. No tourists anymore.”

Ignis shrugs. “I’ll try my luck.”

Her eyes narrow, focusing on his white attire. “Expecting a warm welcome?”

Torn between frustration and civility, Ignis replies, “Any welcome that isn’t immediately fatal would be preferred.”

“I bet.” She looks him up and down, silently considering something, and then huffs, “Don’t get yourself into trouble.” She breaks eye contact, shakes her head, and puts her car back in gear. The vehicle rumbles off, leaving him in the dusty air it’s left behind.

Ignis watches her go. He sighs. “They hate me, Pryna.” He crouches to the ground, ruffling Pryna’s ears. He looks her in the eyes, holding her face between his hands. “Some Oracle I am. I won’t get to do a thing if they won’t let me near them.”

She blinks at him.

“Maybe I should start wearing black,” he muses. It’s not a serious suggestion, and they both know it.

After a moment of staring at each other, Pryna darts forward and licks his nose. Ignis snorts and protests, but he can’t help but smile. Pryna has always been his closest friend in the divine hosts of Twenty-Four and Six. It matters not that he’s hardly met all of them; Pryna is his dear friend, and he intends to keep her in such a highly esteemed position. “Come on,” he sighs, but not before he presses their faces together. “We’ve got to get back on the road.”

The walk isn’t the most exciting thing in the world. The conversation isn’t exactly the best.

Pryna trots along beside him, lolling her tongue in the heat. 

“You don’t have to come along all the way,” Ignis tells her for what must be the twentieth time. “The company is much appreciated, of course, and I enjoyed not fighting any daemons last night or the night before, but I’m quite all right on my own.”

She sneezes. It doesn’t sound very reassuring.

Ignis kicks a rock down the slope of the road, watching it skitter away towards the Disc. “I have a plan, you know.” When Pryna makes no reply, he adds, “It’s not like they’ll turn me away. I have the accent and the outfit. Do you think that soldiers will truly recognize the face of someone who is presumed dead?” He pauses. “Although I suppose a wrinkle comes into the plan if I’m asked my name.”

Pryna bumps up against his leg.

“Yes, you’re right. The alias will do. Or I just don’t offer my name.” He squints at the distance, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Maybe he sees the dark metal of an imperial gate down there, or maybe he’s just hallucinating. It’s miserably hot; he’d almost accuse Pryna of being a Messenger of the Infernian if he were an idiot with a death wish.

But he’s not, and he fears Pryna just as much as he adores her, so he holds his tongue.

“Who do you think will be the first to kill me, Pryna?” he muses. “Gladio or Noctis?”

Pryna barks.

Ignis nods, considering. “Well, you know Prompto. Apparently.” He squints down at her. “Your own agenda, or Luna’s?” He pauses, considering, and then adds, “Though I suppose it’s none of my business.”

It’s clearly not, because Pryna offers no response. Ignis decides to drop it.

They stop just behind some large boulders before the final stretch of sun-baked asphalt leading to the entrance to the Disc of Cauthess. Magitek troopers stand sentry before the hulking gates of forbidding steel, guns in hand. They’re far less bothered by the heat than Ignis is; he curses them for their resilience.

“Now or never,” he says, though whether it’s to himself or Pryna is anyone’s guess.

Pryna shakes herself quickly, blurring into a smear of white in the bright sunlight. When she comes to a stop once more, she looks...bigger. She’s still a white dog, and her tongue still lolls out cheerfully as she looks up at him. But she looks intimidating, like the type of dog a soldier would keep at their side. Not quite a wolf, but not quite a pet. She’s far less innocuous than she usually looks.

Once more, Ignis remembers how much he fears the power of the Messengers.

“Clever girl,” he tells her, and she licks his hand.

Though he’s tempted to draw his daggers when he approaches the gates, he keeps them in the armory for now. Any sign of aggression would only draw the ire of the soldiers, and he’s not inclined to start a battle right now, Messenger at his side or not.

He draws level with the troopers, looking at each of them in turn. He inhales the hot air of summer and exhales control. Peace. Calm. In his heart, Gentiana’s covenant cools his heart, steadying his hands and turning his voice to ice.

“Lord Ravus sent me,” he says, and he prays that the gods will lend credence to his lie. 

The troopers regard him quietly. They don’t move.

Ignis straightens his back and pushes his glasses up his nose, frowning at the troopers. He ignores his pounding heart, taking solace in the fact that he wears the colors of his house. He thinks of home, and of war, and he tries to imagine how Ravus felt when he met the emperor who ordered the death of their mother. Spine of steel. Blood of the Oracle. He can do this.

“Lord Ravus sent me,” he repeats, and he lets the music of Tenebrae color his words, recalling the sound of his mother’s voice. The accent sounds more authentic now. Regal. “I should think you would not like to interfere with the business of the High Commander himself.” He steps a little closer, remembering the soldiers at the Crown City checkpoint, and is pleased when the closest trooper leans away.

Just a bit.

In the back of Ignis’s mind, the familiar urge to  _ heal  _ rises up again, but he ignores it.

Still, the doors do not move.

Ignis scowls, and this time he does indulge the frustration in his heart, built up over years of being the perfect prince, taking refuge in a foreign nation. He snarls, “Let me in, or I will personally see to it that you are disassembled with  _ extreme  _ prejudice.”

The troopers freeze and stare at him for a long moment.

Then they step aside.

The doors to the Disc of Cauthess open with a rumble of massive machinery, sliding aside to strike Ignis with a rush of dry heat. 

Pryna growls at the troopers as they walk past. They don’t draw their weapons on her, but they do shy away, breaching whatever programming is ingrained deep within them to get even a hair further from the massive, stalking form of the Messenger. 

And then they are inside, and the doors roar shut behind them.

Gods, he can’t believe that worked.

Ignis stops and looks down at Pryna. “I don’t know how I managed that,” he tells her, “but I am  _ very  _ glad I did.”

It’s a curious rush, this.

Is this what it’s like to be threatening? To be dangerous?

He’s not sure how he feels about it. He just didn’t expect to feel quite so satisfied.

He starts walking down the spiraling path towards the center of the Disc to take his mind off the idea of it. It’s just like his dream of the day before, sun-dappled and blisteringly hot. Already, blue veins streak through the exposed rock, emanating a foreign type of heat. Meteorshards, Ignis decides.

He descends.

The rough rubble gives way to weathered stonework after a time, inscribed with the worn-down indentations of what must have once been runes. They’re in an older script that is closer to the language of Solheim than to modern Lucian, and that in itself is perplexing. A remnant of the astral war, here at the doorstep of a god?

“Look at this, Pryna,” he says, stepping up to the wall. He runs his fingers along the runes. “Do you recognize this?”

There’s no response. He supposes he shouldn’t have expected one.

He keeps one hand on the wall as he continues downward, searching the runes for anything he might recognize. Even the carvings have been abused by the passage of time and what must have been thousands of the eager faithful, rendering the faces of this ancient story anonymous.

A king, maybe, with a woman at his side.

And just there: the same king, bearing a sword against something with the silhouette of a man but without features, dark and anonymous.

A ring, a crystal, a promise-

Pryna barks behind him, high and quick.

And then she’s silent.

Ignis turns his head from the carvings, searching for her. “Pryna?” he calls quietly, but the Messenger has disappeared. 

Carefully, Ignis steps away from the wall, taking care not to let his shoes scuff against the rubble on the ground. The ruins are eerily quiet around him, and only the distant sound of bubbling rock comes through to greet him. He casts his senses out for any trace of the magitek troopers and the darkness that comes with them, but nothing quite so strong comes to his attention. But there’s some trace of darkness there, on the edge of his awareness, just as his dream warned him.

He reaches for the Trident in the armory, but he hesitates. If he summons it now, Noct will know that he’s using it. Besides, he doesn’t want to invite a battle by alerting whoever or whatever is stalking him.

Something presses against the back of his neck, freezing cold in the oppressive heat of the Disc. Something sharp.

A sword.

Ignis freezes.

“What’s this?”

The voice sends a chill down his spine. 

Ignis presses his lips together, trying to sort through all of the possibilities. He could run. He could fight and win. He could fight and die. Why did Pryna leave, why did Pryna  _ leave- _

“Don’t move, and you may still live.”

He contemplates summoning a dagger, but he doesn’t have any particular sort of death wish today. “Good afternoon,” he says weakly. “Wonderful day.” Gods, why did he never pick up Gladio’s skills with his words?

“We don’t get many tourists at the Disc. Even fewer now, given the blockade you seem to have sauntered through.” 

“I’m a very...eager...tourist.” 

“So it would seem,” the voice sneers. “Turn, so I may see who claims my approval. Why do you seek the Archaean?”

Slowly, and entirely aware of the blade a scant distance from his vulnerable throat, Ignis turns and stares up into the face of-

The face of-

Of-

“Ravus!” Ignis cries, forgetting himself. 

Gods, there’s no doubt about it. He hasn’t had a photograph from Luna in years, but there’s no mistaking it.

Here stands High Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret, holding a sword to his throat.

Ravus steps back, and now Ignis can see all of him, taking in the tall lean lines of his body and the way that his hair hangs to his shoulders. And there’s the distinctive white of his Tenebraen raiment, but the accents aren’t just black like they should be; they’re purple, why the hell are they  _ purple- _

“Who are you?” he nearly snarls, but there’s a tremor in his voice. It sounds like denial, like hope, or like relief.

Ignis takes a small step forward, scarcely daring to close the distance between them. “Ravus,” he whispers, and he extends a hand into the space between them, calling golden light to his palm. It pours easily from its home in his heart, drawn to another of the line of the Oracle and whispering songs of stars in their mother’s voice.

“Ignis?” Ravus breathes, and he reaches out to him in some sort of reflex, but his arm is purple and metal and  _ wrong.  _ “It can’t be.”

“It’s me,” Ignis promises, and he summons their mother’s Trident to his hand.

Ravus surges forward, all lanky, imposing strength barrelling forwards, and Ignis braces himself. Before he can even realize what’s happening, he’s wrapped up in impossibly strong arms, held tightly in Ravus’s grasp.

He’s hugging him. He’s hugging his brother.

Ignis lets the Trident dissolve at his fingertips, sending it back to the armory. The moment it’s gone, he throws his arms around Ravus, holding him so tightly that he fears he might choke the life out of him. 

It’s Ravus, it’s Ravus, it’s his  _ brother. _

_ I’m home. _

Ignis buries his face in Ravus’s chest. If he inhales, he can almost convince himself that he smells sylleblossoms. Ravus shakes in his grasp and pulls him even closer than Ignis thought possible. He’s taller than Ignis - he always was - and so Ignis’s head fits perfectly beneath his chin. He murmurs something into Ignis’s hair that might have been his name or some half-remembered prayer.

They break apart. Ignis doesn’t want to; the last time he saw his brother, he was running away. If he steps away now, he can’t be sure that he won’t lose him again.

Up close, Ignis can see that the pale gray-blue of his brother’s left eye is a shining lavender instead. The purple reminds Ignis of his dream at Galdin Quay, and of the colors that shone out of the all-consuming blackness, and of the darkness beyond the runes of a haven at night.

Despite himself, he shivers.

There’s a faint, nagging pain on the parts of him that touched the metal arm. He doesn’t mind it, though. This is Ravus. He’d endure anything for Ravus.

Ravus keeps him close, running his hands along Ignis’s shoulders, bringing a finger up to trace the lines of Ignis’s face. It’s his human hand that he uses for that, and Ignis is privately thankful. “You’re alive, after all this time,” he breathes.

“Of course,” Ignis replies; he can’t stop smiling. Why can’t he catch his breath? He raises his hand to catch Ravus’s wrist, holding him where he’s curled his hand around the back of his neck. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt quite so secure as he does now, held close by his brother. “Ravus, when you stopped writing, I feared-”

“I’m sorry, Ignis; I’m so sorry. I couldn’t keep-”

“It’s okay; I forgive you, but I worried-”

Ravus lets out a little laugh, and he smiles, and it’s the most radiant thing Ignis has seen in a long time, like the blessing of the gods shines through his brother’s face. Like all of his light turned outward. “You’ve always been a worrier, haven’t you?”

Ignis returns the smile. “I never stopped,” he admits.

“Good,” Ravus says, and he pulls him in for another hug, quick and fierce, before releasing him again. “Ignis, it’s been so long. So much has changed.”

“Too much,” Ignis points out. He sobers. “What happened to your arm, Ravus?”

“Ignis,” Ravus interrupts, quickly drawing away. He shifts his shoulders, holding his left arm away from Ignis. “Think nothing of it.”

“But your  _ arm,  _ Ravus.” His arm that is no longer there. His arm that has been replaced by this monstrosity that gives Ignis chills in the worst ways. Ignis thinks of the news of the Fall, and of his dream at Galdin Quay, and of the vision of his brother, burning. “I must know.”

“It was foolishness,” Ravus admits quietly. He looks away, and that only emphasizes the way his jaw tenses around the memory. “The Ring of the Lucii. I wore it.”

“The Ring?” But King Regis wears the Ring; only the Lucian monarchs have ever worn it. Even they slowly give themselves over to it, trading their life for the power to sustain their nation. “Ravus, I thought only the kings-”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Ravus interrupts tersely. “The kings were not thrilled to have me face them. They punished me for my insolence.”

“By burning you,” Ignis murmurs, mind on the image of his brother’s arm crumbling to ashes in a field of sylleblossoms.

Ravus eyes him. “How did you know?”

“Just a guess.” When did lies start coming so quickly to his lips? “Ravus, I must know. The Ring. Where is it?”

A pause. “Lunafreya has it.”

_ Of course.  _ He recalls his dream, replaying the image of Lunafreya holding fire in her hands. She was in Insomnia; she must have recovered the Ring from King Regis. And she survived. She survived. “She’s safe?”

“Very much so. Gentiana and Umbra saw her to safety in Lestallum. I fetched her and brought her home.” Ravus frowns. “She insists on carrying on to Altissia.”

“To deliver the Ring, or to marry Noct?” The idea puts a curiously heavy knot in his stomach.

“The former for sure; I’d prefer if she didn’t carry on with the latter. There’s no peace anymore. Not since the Fall.”

“The Fall that your army caused,” Ignis points out. “And now you block the path to the feet of the gods.”

“Why are you here, Ignis?”

“I’ve come to wake Titan. Noctis must gain his blessing.”

Ravus scowls. “I suppose you can now imagine why we blocked off the entrance to the Disc. It’s exactly as the chancellor predicted. You seek to make a covenant.”

“I do.”

“Do you even know how?”

Ignis frowns. “Yes.” As if anyone else would. Ravus may be blood of the Oracle, but he doesn’t know the full extent of the power of the golden light at the center of Ignis’s heart, and of the ice that has replaced the part of him he bartered away.

Ravus raises his eyebrows. “A covenant? You’ve made one? Whose?” he asks. “The gods sleep. Shiva lies dead in Ghorovas Rift.”

“Have you seen her?” Ignis asks, leaning forward. “The Glacian, I mean.” At the thought of Shiva’s corpse, the covenant in his heart sends a spiral of icy fear through his veins. 

Ravus bites his lip - uncharacteristic of a prince - and nods. “It pains me to see her so,” he admits.

“If I told you-” Ignis cuts himself off. Ravus may be his brother, but he is still beholden to Niflheim.

“Ignis?”

Ravus is the blood of the Oracle. If anyone deserves to know the truth, it is he. Lunafreya will learn in time; perhaps Gentiana has already told her. “If I told you, Ravus, that she lives still, somehow-”

“Ignis-”

“Then would you believe that I had forged a covenant with her?”

He’s not prepared for the joy that lights Ravus’s mismatched eyes. “Truly?” he breathes. “Shiva - she lives?”

“She does,” Ignis promises. In his heart, the part of him that belongs to Gentiana calls out in greeting. 

Ravus’s lips part in a smile. “Then I am glad,” he says quietly, “that one of the Hexatheon has already bound herself to you.” He studies Ignis carefully. “But the covenant - does it drain you?”

Ignis shrugs. “It did. But it’s familiar now.” He doesn’t quite remember what it was like to have possession of every part of himself.

“And this one will do the same?”

“I would expect as much.”

“Well, you’ve certainly dressed the part. This is a Tenebraen design,” Ravus muses, and his flesh-and-blood arm tentatively reaches for Ignis once more. Ignis nods, accepting the touch, and Ravus’s fingers alight on the white fabric of the jacket. “Though it is not made by one of ours. Lucian make, I presume?” When Ignis nods once more, Ravus’s lip curls. “It is a forgery, then.”

Ignis sighs. “It serves its purpose,” he protests.

“You deserve better. You deserve home.”

_ Home.  _ Long has it been since he has heard anyone else speak of the green hills of Tenebrae as anything other than a lost cause. “I miss it,” he admits, and he bites his lip to prevent another surge of emotion. He cannot cry here. Not now. Titan will see his tears and call them a weakness. 

The hand on Ignis’s sleeve tightens, and Ravus’s thumb runs idly along his bicep. It’s a comforting rhythm, one that almost makes Ignis recall the distant melodies of their mother’s lullabies. “Come back to Tenebrae,” Ravus urges. “Abandon this venture. I can get you there safely.”

“Ravus...”

“Come home, Ignis.” If he knew his brother better, maybe Ignis would be certain that the tone in Ravus’s voice is desperation. “Come home with me.”

Ignis wants to.

_ Gods,  _ he would want nothing more than to join Ravus on some nameless airship and to fly home to Tenebrae. There, the people would know him, and they would welcome him, and they would find him among the sylleblossom fields. He would heal them there, with Lunafreya and Ravus at his side.

He cannot.

Titan slumbers somewhere at the center of this crater. Ignis has not come this far to leave him behind now. He left Noctis to do this, and he will not abandon his calling now.

He lifts his chin, masking his regret with confidence. “My duty is with Noctis.”

“Ignis-”

Ignis shakes his head. “You cannot change my mind, Ravus. I must do this for him.”

Ravus’s eyes harden. “So be it.”

Is it that easy for Ravus to send him away once more? To forget him? Ignis swallows around the growing knot of tears in his throat. “Do not think that I wish to estrange myself once more from you, Ravus. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Nor I you, brother, but if you insist on following the traitor king’s son, I can neither stop you nor follow you.”

He reaches out and takes Ravus’s hand. Carefully, he asks, “If you will not join me on this journey, I must ask one more thing of you. Will you come to wake him with me?”

Ravus averts his eyes. “Ignis,” he says quietly. “You know I cannot.”

“You are the blood of the Oracle, Ravus. I would have you by my side.”

For a moment, Ignis thinks that his brother may say yes, and that he will stand by his side to wake Titan from his millennia-old slumber. But the moment passes with a breath of wind through the oppressive heat, and Ravus shakes his head. “The High Commander cannot be seen waking gods for the sake of a defeated princeling.”

“Then leave the empire, Ravus!”

“I still have use for it. I will reap its benefits for a little while longer.”

“Benefits for whom?”

“For you, Ignis!” Ravus snaps. “For Lunafreya. For home!”

Ignis recoils. “Ravus,” he says softly.

His brother stands there for a moment, fists clenched at his sides. Something like lightning crackles along his metal knuckles, only to extinguish itself once more. At last, Ravus meets his gaze, and the asymmetry only makes him look more penitent. “I just want to bring us home, Ignis.”

“Soon,” Ignis promises. “Ravus, the sooner I wake the gods, the sooner Noct will complete his journey, and the sooner we will be free.” He’s not quite sure of the last part. He’s even less sure what the end of the journey means for an Oracle who has outlived their purpose. He neglects to tell Ravus as much. “And then I will come home, brother.”

“Ignis, I cannot endorse your journey. Not in my heart. I know the cost of the covenants, as Mother told us.” Ravus holds Ignis’s hands tightly, and Ignis can’t bring himself to hate the touch of his brother’s magitek fingers. “I fear for you, little brother.”

Ignis squeezes his brother’s hands in return. “Just as I fear for you. Just as I always have.” He bites his lip, then insists, “I will be fine, Ravus. I swear it to you.”

A half-remembered saying comes to mind with the lilt of Gentiana’s voice, telling him that he will one day learn the weight of promises.

But Ignis means it. He will see his brother again. He will.

Ravus sighs, but he releases Ignis’s hands, albeit reluctantly. “Go with the grace of the gods, Ignis.” He kisses Ignis’s forehead, careful and gentle, like Ignis is still the little child that Ravus once taught how to play in fields of sylleblossoms. Ignis closes his eyes, welcoming the touch, and breathes in a careful, shuddering breath. Ravus carefully reaches up and adjusts Ignis’s glasses, smiling faintly when he’s satisfied with the result. “And go with my love, little brother,” he adds quietly. “And Lunafreya’s as well.”

Ignis smiles. “You have always had mine.”

And his brother leaves.

Ignis closes his eyes so he doesn’t create another memory of leaving his brother behind. 

The rubble shifts and crunches beneath Ravus’s boots to herald his departure, growing fainter and fainter until there is nothing left to hear but the bubbling of molten rock.

Ignis opens his eyes.

And Ravus is gone.

Somewhere in the distance, an engine rumbles to life.

He looks up to see a sleek black airship lifting into the air from across the great stone maze of Cauthess. It hovers in the air for a moment, poised like some horrible bird of prey, before its engines rev up and it begins coursing across the sky in the direction of the setting sun. Ravus is in there; Ignis knows it. He watches the ship disappear.

This time will not be the last. He will see his brother again.

He hopes that he’s not lying to himself.

He waits until the black speck in the sky is little more than a memory before he shakes himself and carries on, this time completely alone. Pryna does not return to his side. Perhaps she knows that the realm of a god is not where she is needed. Some part of that sentiment makes Ignis feel a little more secure, knowing that Pryna trusted that he would be safe enough to not have need of her presence anymore.

The twisting tunnels and mazework of the Disc’s inner workings give way to a stone archway, and then to a great expanse of smooth stone that looks out over-

Over  _ everything. _

He’s reached center of the Disc.

The world opens up before him, and the intensity of the heat only grows. The hulking, jagged mass of the Meteor sits before him at the center of a great chasm, overlooked by this platform of carven, ancient stone. There’s no sign of the Archaean.

But there is a tomb.

Or what’s left of one.

“Of all places,” he mutters, and he laughs to himself. “Typical.” He walks up to the crooked mass of stone that marks this king’s final resting place. Much of the stonework on this platform has crumbled and fallen, probably shaken loose by the tremors that rock Duscae as Titan sleeps.

He runs his fingers along the bier where the king lies alone. There’s no sign of an Oracle’s statue here; where has she gone? Was she displaced by the relentless passage of time, or by the constant shifting of the earth here before the bed of the Archaean?

Maybe Titan reclaimed her, forging a final covenant in stone.

No Oracle is ever truly free.

Neither are the kings.

“I know you,” he tells the king quietly. “I know your past.” He knows the kings of Lucis far better than the Oracles of Tenebrae; that in itself feels like a betrayal. But there’s no mistaking the longsword in this king’s stone fingers: beautiful beyond words, winged and silver and untouched by time. The first of the Royal Arms. Ignis names him. “King Somnus.”

He’s not sure if he expected some sort of absolution from speaking the name of the Founder King; none comes.

Ignis sighs and draws away from the tomb. Noct will want to claim this sword when he comes to receive the Archaean’s blessing. There is nothing that it can offer for Ignis, though, save for memories and guilt.

The tomb of the Mystic sits on the edge of a precipice that looks out over the center of the Disc’s massive crater. The full might of the Meteor looms above him, emanating a heat both holy and terrifying. Below, in the cracks where the very earth has been torn asunder, molten rock gleams scarlet and sets the air afire.

The Archaean waits here.

Ignis breathes in.

He breathes out.

The air nearly burns his lungs, but such is the price of communion. The Oracle’s duty does not halt for the trivialities of human discomfort.

“I can do this,” he tells himself.

The voice in his heart whispers encouragement, and for once it orders him to  _ awaken  _ instead of  _ heal. _

He draws the Trident of the Oracle from the armory, and almost immediately he feels the twinge of sharp recognition and surprise as it lances through the magical connection towards him: Noct and the others. They’ve felt him draw from the power of kings.

Time is running out.

Now or never.

Ignis raises the Trident in the air, holding it with both hands before his face. He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply to bring his heartbeat into harmony with the music of the Trident. As he does, he finds himself humming along with the song he knows by heart.

Songs to wake the gods, his mother had told him. Maybe she’d known, somehow, that Ignis was always meant to raise the Six from their slumber. 

The music feels important now.

Something twinges in his heart, gleaming bright gold within him. 

This is his calling. He was born for this.

And then the Meteor moves.

It rises in a mass of shattering crystal and falling rocks. The earth shudders beneath Ignis’s feet as it happens, and then the rocks of the crater shift in unison, drawing together and up in a fluid motion, as if they, too are waking up. But when Ignis studies them, he sees that they were not rocks at all; here is a finger, and an arm, and there is the broad chest.

He hadn’t realized that the Meteor had integrated itself so much into the body of the Archaean. But here it is, piercing through the massive shoulders and arms of this giant; a cluster of bluish crystal spirals out from one of his eyes.

_ Titan. _

Ignis stares up into the face of a god.

He bows.

Titan’s voice is thunderous, louder than the crashing of boulders from the distant mountains. Ignis has heard this music before, back in Tenebrae when the fragile boulders and stone bridges of his homeland would crumble and fall, announcing their demise with crashes that echoed around the open fields. This time, it resolves itself into words in a language Ignis has never learned but has always known. He hears Titan’s voice in his ears; in the vibrations of the Trident; in the golden light of his heart. 

**_Long have I slumbered. Who do you claim to be, waking me now?_ **

Ignis meets the gaze of this being who is older than time itself, and he tries to be brave. “I am Ignis of House Fleuret, protector of the people and of this star.”

**_The king is the protector of this star. What are you?_ **

Ignis swallows.

What is he?

A prince without a nation. A brother without his siblings. An Oracle without a king.

“I am Ignis of House Fleuret,” Ignis repeats, and he takes solace in his name. “I am the son of Queen Sylva Via Fleuret. I am the Oracle, voice of the gods.” He raises the Trident for Titan to see, and in his other hand he summons a dagger in a shower of sparks. “I am a sworn protector of King Noctis, the Chosen.”

Titan’s single golden eye narrows.

“So you see,” Ignis says, voice firm, and he cannot help but smile, “as protector of the king, so too do I protect our star.”

**_You are clever, little Oracle. That wit will save our star._ **

That seems like enough of an approval that Ignis dares to ask, “So it is truly in danger, then?”

**_It must be saved._ **

Ignis nods earnestly. “Noctis will do it. It is ordained.”

**_The last king who was granted my power only held off the darkness. Can your king save this star and its people from destruction?_ **

Darkness. The darkness from his dream. The darkness that had seen him and laughed. It’s coming for them all. In his dream, Noctis had stood alone before it all, bolstered by the power of the kings and the divine host at his back.

Will it be enough?

“He can and he will,” Ignis declares, and every part of him hums in harmony with the promise. “I swear it on my honor as Oracle.”

For a moment, he fears that he may have said the wrong thing. Titan glowers down at him, massive and inescapable. Ignis shifts his hands on the Trident, not daring to break eye contact with this god who has slept for eons only to be woken by him, a mere mortal who dares to speak on the behalf of the gods.

He’s never felt quite so insignificant.

But then the earth shakes beneath him, and Titan shifts above him, reaching out with a speed that is uncanny for a being so large. Ignis flinches away from it, but the massive hand of the Archaean does not come to strike him and crush him into the earth as he’d expected. Instead, Titan holds his hand out before Ignis, palm up, and waits.

Ignis gapes up at him.

**_Come, clever one._ **

Ignis steps forward, off of the cliff, and onto the waiting fingers of a god.

The footing is more even than he’d expected. Titan’s hand is steady beneath him, sure as stone. Ignis picks his way along the crags and valleys of the Archaean’s fingers, making his way as quickly as possible to the center of his hand, far from danger. Titan holds him in the palm of his hand, lifting him through the air above the crackling, bubbling stone and razor-sharp spires of the Meteor. He brings Ignis up, up, up, towards the glowing blue crystals of the heart of the Meteor and to his face.

He halts when he’s brought Ignis level with his golden gaze, studying him closely. Ignis stands still to bear his scrutiny, not daring to move a muscle. He must pass muster, though, because Titan blinks slowly at him and speaks.

His voice is nearly too loud to bear now, but Ignis was born to hear the voices of the gods. Divinity cannot harm him the way it does the others on their star. Not in the same ways, at least.

**_Where is your king now, little Oracle?_ **

“Elsewhere,” Ignis replies, “gathering his strength. He is collecting the armiger of the kings.”

Something like approval gleams in the Archaean’s eye, only to fade once more. He bares his teeth and rumbles out a warning.  **_He will be tested. If he fails, the blessing will not be granted, and he will be destroyed._ **

Ignis stares into Titan’s face, and he laughs.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The golden light in his heart rises up to challenge the might of the divine.

He thinks Titan might actually smile.

**_You are bold, little Oracle. The Glacian was right to trust you with her blessing._ **

Ignis dips his head in acknowledgement. “I hope I can prove myself worthy to you,” he says quietly. “I would welcome the honor of your allegiance.”

Titan considers him for a long moment.  **_So it shall be granted._ **

He sets Ignis down beside the tomb of the long-dead king. Ignis climbs down from the crags of the Archaean’s fingertips, landing lightly on his toes. The Trident is a welcome comfort in his hands, guiding him back to the earth. Ignis stands and looks up into Titan’s face. This god saved Eos from decimation once, long ago.

And now he is entrusting the same task to Ignis.

**_If the king survives the revelation, he will be granted the blessing of the Archaean. Our covenant is thus forged._ **

Ignis bows once more. “You have my thanks.”

Titan closes his eye, and the world shakes around him, and then-

Ignis drops to his knees.

This covenant is entirely different from the gentle comfort of Shiva’s touch. Shiva’s covenant had coaxed a fraction of golden light from his heart, replacing it with the biting chill of a winter night.

That is not how this covenant is granted to him.

This covenant is a meteor shard in his heart, scorching hot as it burns its way into his soul, taking the place of the golden magic he has left and replacing it with stone and crystal and might.

Ignis gasps. 

The Trident clatters to the ground at his side, forgotten. He can’t hear the music over the aching howl of loss in his head.

The only word in his soul is  _ hollow  _ where he searches for the part of himself that Titan took _ - _

All he can feel is the heaviness of his heart, and then he is falling, falling, falling-

The world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr [here!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	8. titan ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The revelation of Titan begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad I could bring you guys this chapter! Finals season is here in force, but I just couldn't put this fic down. Hope you enjoy!

He dreams, but it’s not the same.

He’s running through the maze of stone corridors in the Disc again, but this time there is no sunlight above him. Clouds of a noxious green-black color cover the sky, blotting out any hope of sunlight. Instead of meteorshards, dripping fountains of darkness break up the smooth surface of the rocks.

Faceless people reach out to him from the shifting blackness, and their fingers tear at his sleeves. Where they catch at him, they leave dewdrops of tar and ink, glinting with the reddish purple miasma of daemons at night. Their fingerprints stain his clothing, leaving him streaked with the poison that has haunted his dreams ever since Insomnia. Their voices scream in his ears, begging for salvation.

He can’t save them from the darkness. They all need healing, but there’s not enough of him left-

There’s still someone who can save them. There’s something in his heart made of stars and stone and rock, and it speaks of duty and destiny and the weight of promises. From down the endless corridor of the damned, a figure of whitish-blue light shivers into focus. A king. A god. Something in between, or something even more powerful. Does it matter?

“Noct!” he cries into the darkness. It’s Noct. It has to be. He is the Chosen. “Noct, please!”

_ I can’t do this alone. _

He wakes.

The first breath he’s aware of comes to him like a furnace in his lungs being stoked to life. Something in his heart flares in response, only tempered by the deep chill that lives there too. Ignis coughs around it, unused to the feeling of such heat and solidness in the center of his chest. He’s weighed down by it all.

It’s too hot for comfort. Every part of him is suffused with the miserable heat of the Meteor, radiating up from the stone he’s lying on.

Wait. Why is he lying down?

Ignis groans and tries to move, but his body aches in protest. His head throbs as well, and he’s pretty sure that some part of his hair is matted down with more than just sweat. “Gods,” he grits out. It’s coming back to him: the long trek through Duscae, the intimidation of the guards, his reunion with Ravus, and the audience with Titan. And the covenant. 

Gods, the covenant.

That’s the weight in his chest; if he concentrates, he recognizes the foreign bulk of it where it’s built itself a home in the center of his chest. It clashes and mixes with Gentiana’s covenant, unfamiliar compared to the golden light that once lived there. 

Everything hurts.

There’s a curious dizziness in his mind even though he’s lying down, and when he carefully lifts his hand to the side of his head, his fingers come away rust-colored. He must have fallen and hit his head on something on the way down. He turns his head to the side to try to look around, but even that sets his mind afire. Weakly, he manages to rasp past a too-dry throat, “Hello?”

It’s futile, surely. But maybe Ravus could have returned to him. Maybe Noct and the others are somehow aware of the waking of Titan and have made it past the guards and into the Disc of Cauthess.

_ Noct. _

Ignis winces.

Best not to think of him now.

A shadow falls across his eyes. Ignis winces away from it, sure that it’s another desperate soul, drowning in darkness and Starscourge and begging for mercy he cannot grant. But then something snuffles in his ear, and something soft brushes against his cheek, and then something rough and wet rasps across his cheek.

Pryna’s licking his face.

_ Thank the gods. _

“Where have you been?” he asks weakly, reaching out to ruffle her fur. “You missed the best part.”

She accepts the touch, ducking her head and pressing the cold wetness of her nose against him in return. Her fur is warm, though, heated by the Meteor and something else as well. The feeling seeps into his hands through his gloves, lending him a little bit of strength. He doesn’t quite feel like he’s about to die anymore.

“Is the-” He squints up at the sky. “Is the sun out?”

Pryna casts her eyes skyward, staring steadily at the bright sun in the blue sky, and then looks back at him. She blinks.

Ignis sighs. “I suppose you won’t be able to tell me how long I’ve been unconscious.” He tries to sit up, wincing at the strain on his muscles. It feels like he’s been running for years, worn-down and aching. His stomach growls in sharp protest at the movement. “Too long, I suppose,” he mutters, and he pats around at his pockets for his water skin. “Armiger,” he says faintly, but he still keeps patting aimlessly at his chest aimlessly. Nothing’s quite working on his physical body, let alone his access to the magical plane of kings.

The air whistles around them. They’re still on the platform beside the tomb of the Mystic. The heat is the same, shimmering in the air as if it’s taunting him. Ignis groans.

“Where is Titan?” he asks, but Pryna doesn’t answer. Ignis turns his head to search for the imposing mass of the god, but the Meteor sits placidly in the center of the chasm, showing no evidence that Titan had ever moved at all. Maybe that was a fever dream as well, caused by his fall.

Did he even see Ravus?

He bites his lip, struggling to sit up. “No,” he says aloud. “That happened.” It had to have happened. If it had all been a figment of his imagination-

No. It was real. Ravus was real.

This covenant is real.

Ignis breathes out again, collecting himself, and continues dragging himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the solid carven stone of the Mystic’s tomb. Even being this much upright sends him into a dizzying spiral; he must have been lying down for a long time. His body isn’t ready for this much strain, but he forces it upwards anyway. Let nobody say that the Oracle is weak.

“Iggy!”

Wait.

Who was that?

There are very few people in all of Eos who dare to call him by such a nickname as that. There are very few people who would speak the name of the Oracle with affection and concern and power.

_ Thank the gods. _

Ignis pulls himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the tomb of the Mystic. The Trident provides enough support for him to cling to, levering himself up into something approximating a standing position. When he gets upright - or as close as he’s going to get - he reaches out and braces himself on the edge of the statue as well. He looks down at where his fingers are spread along the marble and sighs.

He knows where he hit his head now. There’s a smear of his blood on the stone of the king’s tomb.

“That’s blasphemy, probably,” he says mildly. The Lucis Caelums are god-kings, after all, blessed just like the Oracles, built to take life just as the Oracles are raised to give it. Conquering. Consuming.

It certainly feels like part of him has been consumed. 

“Iggy!”

The voice is closer this time, and loud enough that Ignis recognizes the familiar timbre of Gladio’s voice. He sags in relief against the Mystic’s stone sarcophagus, peering out towards the opening that leads to this platform from the outer parts of the Disc. He considers himself lucky that he didn’t fracture his glasses on the way down when he fell; Gladio’s face comes into perfect focus as he bursts out onto the stone platform.

_ Gods,  _ he doesn’t look very happy to see Ignis.

“Gladio,” Ignis breathes in relief, swaying precariously on his feet.

“You idiot,” Gladio growls, storming up to Ignis. “You utter fucking  _ moron.” _

And he hugs Ignis.

_ Oh. _

It’s not the outcome Ignis had predicted, though he supposes it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. He lets Gladio hold him upright, sagging gratefully in his grasp. “Hello, Gladio,” he says with only a little bit of a rasp. “You wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

Gladio steps back, still holding Ignis by the shoulders. “Don’t you - in the armory?”

Ignis grimaces. “I’m a bit...tapped, as it were. “Covenants are-” Ignis cuts himself off, hissing when Gladio takes him by the hand. “Draining. Very much so.”

“Ignis, fuck, are you okay?” Gladio’s bright amber gaze slides all along his body, taking in what must surely be a dust and blood-covered Oracle. He doesn’t look very pleased, which means that Ignis is never going to hear the end of this. “You were bleeding from your head.”

“Took a tumble.”

“Do you mean-” Gladio makes a noise of pained disbelief, and he rips a bottle of water from the armiger to pass to Ignis. “Do you mean you’ve just  _ been  _ here? Concussed? For days?”

“Not all of the days,” Ignis protests weakly. “Though, speaking of which…” He ducks his head, cowed by the look in Gladio’s eyes. “How many days has it been, exactly?”

Gladio blinks. “A week, Ignis. It’s been a week since you left.”

Oh,  _ gods. _

He makes a valiant effort at a shrug; it comes off as more of a spasm, really. “Sorry?”

“You  _ moron.” _

“That’s no way to talk to a prince.”

“You  _ royal fucking idiot.” _

Ignis snorts despite the agony in his everything. “Passable.”

“Here.” Gladio pulls two more bottles from the armiger; they glint in the sun. “Elixir first. Ready?”

Ignis nods and decides that his head is far more comfortable when he keeps his chin tucked to his chest. He closes his eyes, trying to get his breathing in order. “Ready.”

Gladio presses the glass bottle against the center of his chest with more care than Ignis had anticipated, given the ire in his voice. The glass bursts in a flash of blue light, sending sparks out into the hazy heat. The relief is so immediate that Ignis gasps aloud, clutching even more tightly at the Trident. The persistent throbbing in his head subsides to a dull ache, and most of the nausea clears along with it. Any cuts and scrapes he got during his journey close up, leaving only faint red marks in their wake.

He’s still tired, though, deep in his bones. And nothing will fill the hole in his heart where his golden light once lived; even this bandage of stone and meteorshards will one day be taken away, leaving him raw again.

For now, though, he’s content with the relief the curative brings. 

“Thank you,” he says gratefully, carefully rolling out his shoulder. He must have landed on it when he fell, and it still aches a bit; the elixir alone probably didn’t have enough healing ability to bring him into top condition. The relief comes now not with magic, but with the simple motion of stretching the aching muscle. “I feel as if I may...owe you an apology or two.”

The glare Gladio gives him could probably kill him. It’s not entirely impossible, really, given how exhausted he is. Elixirs don’t exactly cure days of dehydration and starvation. 

As an afterthought, Ignis takes a drink of water. It’s probably the best thing he’s ever had in his life, or at least that’s the way it feels right now. He tilts the bottle back, taking another swig, and downs it with a sigh of satisfaction. “Perhaps,” he amends when he’s done, pleased with the way his voice has smoothed out, “several apologies.” 

“You’d better fucking believe it,” Gladio says roughly. “We tried to go after you, but Umbra wouldn’t let us stray from the road. He kept us going to Lestallum.”

“So you made it.” And Umbra brought them along, keeping them on the path Ignis had hoped they would take. Perhaps this was more than just a test; maybe it was ordained as well. Ignis glances around for Pryna, but the Messenger has left his side and trotted towards Prompto for some scratches beneath her chin. And, oh. Yes. Prompto’s here too.

And Noct.

Ignis almost doesn’t want to look at him. 

He’d expected to see Noct stronger, suffused with the might of another Royal Arm in his soul. And maybe he is. It just doesn’t show.

It seems that Titan has already taken a toll on him as well. 

Noctis is pale.

He’s hunched in over himself towards the entrance to the platform, 

“Noct,” Ignis calls quietly, grimacing when Gladio crushes an ether against his back. It doesn’t come close to replacing the golden light that Titan took, but the fragile connection to the kings’ armory shudders back to life in his heart. Ignis shivers despite the heat.

Noct finally looks at him then, glaring at him from behind the long dark fringe of his hair. His eyes are totally unreadable from this far away. Then he shakes his head, hiding even further beneath his hair, and turns to the side, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ignis doesn’t bother trying again.

Gladio must notice, because he leans in close to Ignis and says, “Kid’s been getting headaches.”

Without looking away from Noctis, Ignis quietly asks, “Since when?”

“Since you woke the big guy, I’d expect.”

“Is that how you knew how to find me?”

Prompto ambles over with Pryna in tow. “Kind of. That’s how we knew you were at the Disc.”

“From headaches?” Ignis asks.

“I saw Titan.”

Past the relief of hearing him, Ignis can’t help but notice that Noct’s voice is rubble-rough, laced with pain. 

_ I caused that. I left him behind. I woke Titan. _

Noctis walks over, pointedly not making eye contact with anyone. “Saw him in bits and pieces.” Now he’s close enough that the dark circles beneath his eyes are immediately apparent. Pryna leaves Prompto’s side to trot over to him, and Noct drops into a crouch, running his fingers through Pryna’s soft white fur. The tension in his shoulders seems to subside a bit as he does it; Ignis silently thanks Pryna for her intervention, however small.

“So you came here.”

“Who brought you inside the Disc? You must have gotten past the troopers somehow.”

“Oh!” Prompto says. “Ardyn.”

Ignis blinks. “Who is Ardyn?”

“Remember that guy from Galdin?”

“Too well.” Ignis rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You should have avoided him.”

“He brought us here!” Prompto protests. “He let us in past the gates.”

Past the gates? That’s not exactly the most simple thing in the world. Exasperated, Ignis asks, “Did you ever stop to question  _ why  _ this Ardyn had access to the gates to the Disc of Cauthess?” The name itches at the back of his mind with something like recognition, reminding him of his diplomacy classes with his tutors in the Citadel.

“Wait,” Gladio says, holding his hand up. “How’d  _ you _ get in?”

Ignis grimaces. “It’s a long story.”

Prompto points at the Trident. “And what’s that?”

“That’s the most pressing question?” Ignis jokes weakly. “I can explain later.” He looks at the intricate engravings on the prongs of the Trident, admiring it for a moment before he chooses to banish it. He misses it the moment it disappears, like he’s sent away a safety blanket like some sort of child. “I promise. But for now, there are more pressing matters at hand.”

“Like your concussion? And you leaving us without any warning in the middle of the night? And you waking a god in the middle of imperial territory with no supervision?” Gladio folds his arms. “I can go on.”

“You needn’t,” Ignis replies sharply. “I’m well aware of what I did.” Again, a glance towards Noct; again, a flash of dark blue, unreadable and unwelcoming. Ignis swallows his humiliation and guilt and continues, “I came here for a reason, but I found something else as well. There’s a tomb here.” He pats at the edge of the Mystic’s stone sarcophagus. “...Noct, if you so choose, the power is yours.”

In a single fluid motion, Noct rises to his feet. It would be the picture of elegance if not for the way he winces at the movement. He brushes past Ignis on the way to the Royal Arm of the Founder King; Ignis draws back at once, averting his eyes. He doesn’t deserve Noct’s attention. He doesn’t deserve Noct’s forgiveness.

Noct stands beside the Mystic, staring down at his stone face. He closes his eyes, and his dark eyelashes cast stark shadows across the darkness below his eyes. He holds his hand out over the sword, and the weapon immediately glows bright blue-white, sucking in all of the light from around them as it rises into the air to hang before them, imposing and ancient and beautiful.

For a moment, Ignis almost wants to reach out to it. There’s a fragment of a king’s soul in that blade, and he feels so  _ hollow- _

He holds back.

He is the Oracle. Oracles do not presume to claim the power of kings. They give. They give. They give.

Kings take.

The sword descends with the sound of reality tearing, and it bursts into light in the center of Noct’s chest. The sheer force of this king’s power knocks Noct back a few steps, forcing him away from the Mystic’s tomb. Noctis raises his hand to rest above his heart, bowing his head to recover his breath. The shimmering crystalline shards of King Somnus’s soul float around his body, drawn to him by the might of the armiger within. The light in the world still concentrates itself around Noctis, dimming all but the sight of the Chosen.

There they are: the first king and the last, closing the circle of time at the feet of a god. 

Ignis breathes out a sigh, and the moment passes: the sun shines with full force, the crystal shards fade, and the world comes back into focus. Noctis blinks into the sunlight, then opens his mouth to say something.

_ Wait. _

Ignis feels it in his heart before his feet, and he reaches out to steady himself. “On your guard,” he calls sharply, and the other three snap to attention out of instinct. The heavy covenant within him lurches and rumbles a warning in the same tone as the Archaean once did. Ignis braces himself.

The earth shakes.

And then it breaks.

Prompto is closest; Ignis pulls him backwards right before a rift appears where his feet had been, knocking them both to the ground as it heaves and groans beneath them. 

He’s not quick enough for the others.

One moment, Noctis is there, brow furrowed in confusion and frustration and pain. In the next, the ground is crumbling beneath him, and he falls out of view, but not before Ignis catches a glimpse of him hanging in the air in the milliseconds before gravity dares to command a king. Noct reaches out to the cliff edge he cannot hope to reach, eyes flying wide as he realizes that there’s no time to warp out, and then he’s falling, falling, falling-

And then he’s gone.

Ignis lurches forward on his hands and knees, coughing in the dust that the rockslide kicked up. Still, the earth trembles beneath him, threatening another upheaval. “Prompto,” he gasps. “Prompto, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Prompto rasps from behind him, and he chokes around some of the dust. “The hell was that?”

“Movements of the Archaean,” Ignis replies, levering himself to his feet. He looks around, squinting through the filth clouding the air. “I-”

He realizes.

Gladio’s gone too.

And Ignis is up here.

_ “Fuck,” _ he swears, adopting the language of Lucis because only  _ that  _ can convey how well and truly panicked he is. He runs towards the edge of the cliff, stumbling over old remnants of the worship of a king. The tomb of the Mystic and its great stone sarcophagus fell into the chasm as well, consigning the king’s memory to oblivion. Ignis can only hope that the same is not true of his own king.

“Iggy, be careful!” Prompto yells, and he catches Ignis by the back of his jacket before he can get too close to the edge.

“I’m fine,” Ignis insists, pulling himself out of Prompto’s grasp. He knows this stone; it will not crumble beneath his feet. “I’m-”

The earth shudders again.

The shard of the Meteor in Ignis’s heart burns hot, calling out to its parent, and Ignis stumbles backwards into Prompto’s grasp. “He’s awake,” he gasps out around the heaviness in his soul. “He’s awake.”

He is.

Titan rises up before them. His golden eye glints in the sunlight, filled with refractions and light from the Meteor that has become a part of him. He looks at Ignis, long and hard, before baring his boulder teeth at them all. 

Prompto grabs at Ignis’s shirt sleeve, holding on tightly. “Is that-”

“Titan,” Ignis finishes grimly. “He’s not in the mood for conversation.”

Titan speaks.

**_Well met, young king._ **

Prompto gapes up at Titan. “What the hell is he saying?”

Ignis glances over at him. He’s confused for a moment -  _ didn’t you just hear him? -  _ but then he remembers himself and says, “He’s greeting Noctis. Just because he’s not talkative doesn’t mean he’s impolite.”

**_The covenant is made. Here you stand. Let the revelation of Titan begin._ **

“Oh, gods,” Ignis hisses. It’s not quite a swear, but somehow it feels blasphemous to fear the god before him. He’d hoped that he’d be able to stand by Noct’s side and lend him aid during the trial. “He’s starting the damn trial.”

Titan bares his teeth.  **_What say you, young king? Will you prove yourself worthy of the allegiance of the Six?_ **

“Noct!” Ignis bellows, scrambling to the edge of the cliff. He shifts his weight according to the demands of the heavy stone in his heart. The shaking rock supports him; it calls out to him in return. “Noctis! Gladio!”

He can see them far down below, standing side by side in Titan’s shadow. “Ignis!” Gladio calls. “Are you two okay?”

Ignis sighs. “Thank the heavens you’re safe.”

“We’re fine up here!” Prompto yells, edging closer to Ignis. Ignis holds an arm out to keep him from getting too close to the top of the cliff.

“Is there a way back up?” he calls.

From down below, Gladio replies, “No but there’s a path! We’re gonna follow it.”

“Be safe!” Ignis begs. “We’ll find our way down to you.”

Gladio’s tiny form gives a salute, and then he ushers Noct towards an arching tangle of meteorshards and rock, disappearing from view.

Prompto inches closer to the edge. “We’re going where?”

“Down,” Ignis says decisively, and he steps back from the cliff, heading towards a cleft in the rock that his heart points out to him. “We need to get there before the revelation gets messy.”

“Do you think they’ll be okay?”

“I hope so.” But Noct had looked so pale. “Gladio will take care of him.”

“No offense, Iggy, but I don’t think that the two of them are going to be much good against  _ that!”  _ Prompto points his shaking hand over the cliff, and Ignis turns to see the massive hand of Titan swiping at the rocks below. Over the rumbling of Titan’s aggression, the faint sound of yelling filters up from below.

Ignis swears softly under his breath. At least they’re still alive. There's nothing he can do to stay the hand of a god. If this is the revelation by which Titan seeks to have Noct prove himself worthy of the covenant in Ignis’s heart, then no amount of wit will sway him. Noct will have to demonstrate his strength of will and body if there’s any hope of gaining the Archaean’s allegiance. “We should make our way down to them,” he suggests quietly. “We could help them.” He stumbles over a rock in his path, nearly collapsing again.

Prompto catches him before he can hit the ground. “Carefully, huh?” he suggests with a lopsided smile.

“Carefully,” Ignis agrees. He looks around. “Gods. Where’s Pryna?” He’d completely forgotten about her once Titan had stirred.

“Tiny?” Prompto asks, eyes widening.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, sorry. Pryna.” Prompto grimaces. “I lost track of her too. The earth split in half, and I kind of had other things on my mind other than her. She’ll be fine, though, right?”

“She should be.” Ignis sends a quiet prayer to whoever’s listening. Though perhaps Titan won’t exactly be receptive to prayers at the moment, least of all for something as trivial as the wellbeing of a Messenger in the midst of a revelation. “Messengers are made of stronger stuff than the rest of us.”

It should be true.

Ignis puts it out of his mind. Pryna appears and disappears at will; she’ll be fine. He pushes Prompto out of the way of a growing crack in the ground, accepting his stuttered thanks with a nod. They need to keep moving; Noct and Gladio need them.

“So you made it to Lestallum?” he asks Prompto. “Tell me about it.”

“We didn’t stay for long. Iris is fine; she and Talcott told us to go over to this cave behind a waterfall. You would’ve loved it! It’s  _ covered  _ in ice, man.”

“I do love ice,” Ignis admits. “Did you find the Royal Arm?”

“Tomb of the...Wanderer? I think? Super cool daggers.”

“Splendid.”

In the distance, Titan roars another wordless challenge, and Ignis and Prompto both wince.

“Keep moving?” Ignis suggests, and he summons a spear - not the Trident, not when he’s so exhausted - and uses it to help vault himself over a rock formation. When he gets to the top, he reaches down to help pull Prompto up over the lip of the stone. “I don’t like not being there for this.”

Prompto stands with him atop the boulder, slapping his hands together to get rid of grit. “Were you expecting this sort of thing when you left?”

“Revelations are the methods by which the gods have tested humanity. It’s only logical that Titan should want Noct to prove himself.”

“Are they always this violent?”

“They’ve been known to level entire cities.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, then.”

“Agreed.” He tries not to think about how Leviathan slumbers at the Walls of Water in Altissia. “Prompto, I must ask. Noct - is he…?”

“Angry?” Prompto finishes, and he smiles weakly. “Yeah.”

Ignis leaps over a growing crack in the stone floor. It’s just a confirmation of what he already knows, but it hurts nonetheless. “I see.”

“Yeah, we woke up in the morning and you were gone, and all he said was that he’d seen you last night, but that you just told him to go back to sleep. After that, he just kind of...shut down, I guess.”

“Shut down?”

Prompto bites at his lip, picking his way around a cluster of fallen rocks. “Y’know how he gets when his dad used to have bad days? Think that, but colder.”

The mere mention of the cold reminds Ignis of the encroaching darkness he feels more often than not. He shudders despite the oppressive heat of the fires and the Meteor and forces himself onward. 

Something rumbles and whines above them. Ignis stops in his tracks, staring upwards. He knows that sound: dropships. He’d heard it when Ravus left him. Prompto places a hand on his elbow and urges him onward, and Ignis shakes his head to clear it of the sound. They just need to get to Noct, and then they can worry about the troops.

“Are you?” he asks.

“Am I what?”

“Angry with me, Prompto.”

Prompto’s silent for a few moments, and there’s a faint sound of crystal as he summons one of his pistols, scanning the skies for any sign of the imperial troops they’d heard. “No,” he finally declares. “No, Iggy, I’m not.”

Ignis nods, keeping his eyes on the ground to help guide Prompto through the ruins. If Prompto’s to be his protection, he might as well protect him in kind. “Thank you, Prompto.”

“Wish you’d told us, though. We would’ve helped you.”

“I’m starting to agree with you,” Ignis admits. Though if the others had joined him, there would have been no chance of them getting past the blockade, or And Ignis very well could have fallen unconscious during the revelation itself.

And maybe they would have attacked Ravus.

So no, he thinks, he still does not completely regret his decision.

Titan bellows again, and he’s closer this time. The small fires around them are flaring brighter and more frequently than before, urging them forward through the gauntlet of raw heat. “We’re close!” Ignis announces, and he starts running. The winding hallways of the Disc funnel him down towards where the crater must surely be, guiding him towards Noct. Bright, burning meteorshards jut out from the cliffside, threatening to tear at him if he gets too close. 

His dream from his trek to the Disc. This is familiar. This is right.

Ignis bursts out of the corridors of collapsing stone and crystal, emerging onto a wide plateau full of fire and steel.

And there’s Noct, pushing the hand of Titan out of his way.

“Noct!” he cries, and he rushes out onto the plateau with Prompto hot on his heels, summoning his daggers to his hands.

Noctis turns to meet his eyes, tossing his hair out of his face. He’s still pale, suffering under the demands of the covenant he must receive, but there’s a light in his eyes the gleams like the armiger. For a moment, his gaze hardens into anger again, but adrenaline takes over and he goes warping off to bury his sword in the chest of an approaching magitek trooper.

“Took you long enough!” Gladio calls from across the battlefield.

Prompto asks, firing off warning shots, “Did you miss us?”

“Apologies,” Ignis says. He grimly sets about sorting through his curatives, assessing the wounds he can see on Noct and Gladio. They seem to not have escaped this battle unscathed.

“You’re here now; that’s all that matters.”

Prompto points with his pistol off to the side. “Iggy. Think those imperial soldiers just wanna say ‘hi’?”

Ignis groans and turns to look where Prompto is gesturing. He swears.

There’s a raised ledge where dropships hover, dropping troopers down along with great ugly machines. The troopers set up their mechanical monsters, sending cables spiraling out to lodge in the hard stone of Titan’s body. Titan roars and swats ineffectually at the cords, trying to get them off, but the imperials hold fast.

It sends a chill down Ignis’s spine. Niflheim has killed a god before. They know what they’re doing now.

They have to get rid of those soldiers.

He starts running.

“Gladio, now!”

Gladio’s already ready for him when Ignis reaches him, boosting him up and into the sky as Ignis uses his shield as a springboard to leap into the air. “Give ‘em hell!” he calls, and he rolls away to rush to Noct’s side.

Ignis spirals midair, arcing towards the raised ledge where imperial soldiers have sent out cables to bind the Archaean. He conjures a spear as he does it, landing lightly in the midst of the imperials. In the same motion, he swipes the spear out in a circle, knocking away any soldiers who are standing too close. He bares his teeth and growls, “You do not deserve to lay your hands on a god.”

He might be drained, but the sheer force of the covenant has brought his remaining golden light boiling to the forefront, and the power of it pulses in his veins. The warmth is a comfort, and for once Ignis welcomes the voice, weak but determined, that begs him to  _ heal. _

He does not heal them, though. He is too angry for that.

Some of the troopers nearest to him stagger backwards, screaming in mechanical anguish. They fall to their knees, bleeding red and black miasma, and then they fall still. The others advance, though, not learning from the faults of their brethren. Ignis slams his spear into the ground, and the ground shatters around him, rippling outward through all the faults in the stone. It’s the might of the Oracle, bolstered by the blessing of the Archaean in his heart; Ignis knows it. He can’t imagine what it would be like if he had used the Trident. 

Nevertheless, the power is enough to send the remaining troopers stumbling off the edge of the cliff, plummeting down towards the feet of the Archaean and the molten rock in which he stands. Ignis stands there, spear in hand, breathing hard. The adrenaline has chased away the worst of his exhaustion and fear, leaving him reckless and eager for a fight. He looks up and meets Titan’s glowing eye for a single moment in the middle of this revelation, and he finds something like approval.

But it’s time to end this.

He leaps back down to join the rest of them, trading his spear for his icebound daggers, whirling in a circle to keep any encroaching soldiers from getting too close to Noctis. The revelation cannot fail; he won’t let these troopers keep Noct from fulfilling his destiny as king. 

His heart lurches raggedly around the ice in his chest. It’s telling him something. It seems so simple, now that he’s faced with the reality of it, but even so he listens as intently as possible. Gentiana knows Titan, and she knows that the only thing to stop Titan’s rampage is to hold him where he stands.

They need to freeze him.

“Prompto! Gladio!” Ignis calls. He’s digging into the armory already, fetching flasks of ice. They come to his fingers easily, drawn by the other covenant he keeps captive in his flesh, sending frost skittering up his arm when he brings the flasks into the material world. He throws two of the flasks; the other two catch them and immediately flinch. They are not used to the might of the Glacian. Ignis tells them, “We need to freeze him!”

Prompto gives a thumbs-up with his free hand and draws his pistol immediately afterwards, firing off a few shots at some troopers who are taking aim at Noct’s head. They drop to the ground, dead and defunct before their metallic heads even hit the stone.

“Hold him, Noct!” Gladio roars.

Noctis nods, bracing himself as Titan’s massive hand descends for another swipe. He bends to counteract the shock of the blow, but the fist of the Archaean brings him to his knees nonetheless. Still, he holds back against the might of a god, pressing back against Titan with his sword braced between both hands.

It’s time. “Now!” Ignis orders, and he doesn’t wait another second; he throws with all his might, sending the flask spiraling towards the hand of Titan. It explodes on impact -  _ attacking one of the Six -  _ and sends whitish ice across his stony skin in dizzying fractals. Gladio and Prompto follow suit, lobbing the flasks at Titan’s fingers. Their aim is true, and their flasks burst against the boulders of his fingers, spreading ice wherever they land.

Titan bellows and jerks his arm back, but his hand doesn’t move.

They’ve got him.

“It’s over!” Noctis bellows, and he leaps into the air, conjuring the might of the Lucii, and he strikes Titan’s arm.

It shatters.

Titan roars, staggering, and golden light starts to pour from him, reaching up to the Meteor and all along his body, shrouding him in sparks.

_ That’s mine,  _ Ignis thinks faintly.

At the sight of the light surrounding Titan, the covenant of meteorshards and stone shifts and burns in his chest, calling out for satisfaction. Ignis grimaces around the heat of it. “Noct,” he calls, and he reaches out slowly, half in a dream, reaching out, out, out to a king far away. “Noct, I need your hand.”

Noctis turns to him slowly, staring him down with unforgiving eyes of steel. It’s like Ignis is being examined by all the kings inside of Noct as well, facing them as they pass judgment. Noctis doesn’t move; he just stares.

Ignis falls to his knees in the middle of the shaking, burning rocks. “Noct,  _ please.”  _ It’s hurting him now; he bites his lip to keep the pain from overwhelming his senses. Across the great crater, Titan roars once more, and the bright lights around him begin to spiral. “The covenant, Noct!”

Noctis reaches out.

Ignis takes his hand.

This is his calling. Here, now, kneeling before the king. He was meant to do this. This is who he was always meant to be.

He holds Noct’s hand between both of his, and he bows his head over it. He exhales a shaking breath and gives in to instinct. This time, his heart cries out to  _ give- _

“Blessed stars of life and light,” he intones quietly-

And he  _ gives- _

He’s hardly gotten the chance to get used to Titan’s covenant; somehow that makes the pain of losing it all the worse. The wound is still raw where it tore out his light and replaced it with stone, and it opens once more, forcing Ignis to bow further forward, clutching at Noct’s hands while the covenant of Titan tears itself out of his soul and makes a new home in Noct’s. 

Noctis shakes in his grasp, gasping above him. When Ignis manages to raise his head, all he can see is the way that Noct’s eyes are blown wide, and the way that they gleam scarlet with the power of the Six. He’s receiving the covenant, forging a pact with the first of the Hexatheon.

And then the final remnants of Titan’s presence disappear from his heart, and Ignis sags in exhaustion, letting go of Noct’s hands to drop his hands to the ground, trying to steady himself on all fours. His head hangs, and he presses it against the shaking, burning rock of the Disc to collect himself. 

“It’s done,” he breathes. “It’s done.”

“Ignis,” Gladio says, suddenly very close to his ear. Ignis hadn’t even noticed him approach. “Iggy, are you okay?”

The bright golden light surrounding Titan pulses outward, turning blindingly white for a moment. Ignis doesn’t bother shielding his eyes to it; it will not hurt him. But the magitek troopers on the ledges and the hovering airships are knocked out of the sky by the might of the god, and when the light fades, Titan and the Meteor have both disappeared.

So it’s truly over, then.

Ignis sighs, and he looks to Noct, trying to get his breathing back in order. “Are you okay?” he asks, trying to ignore how his head is spinning.

Noctis jerks out of his reach; the color is back in his face, and his eyes gleam bright red whenever the light hits them, turning back to steely blue when his face falls into shadow. “I’m fine,” he mutters, shuffling his feet.

“Was that the covenant?” Gladio asks, helping Ignis to his feet. “If it wasn’t, I think we just lost a god.”

Ignis nods. “Yes. Noctis should have the Mark of the Archaean now. The revelation was complete. He proved himself to Titan.”

Gladio nods in approval. “Good. Like a true king.” He meets Noct’s eyes, and Noct nods to him, acknowledging some private message.

“The question now, I guess, is how we’re gonna leave,” Prompto points out. “We parked the Regalia way up there by the gates.”

“Climb?” Gladio suggests. “We could manage it.”

“There’s no way.” Ignis gestures all around them. “Do you not see? We’re trapped here.” It’s true: the fury of Titan has awoken the horrors beneath the earth, and the lava below has risen to make up for the heat that disappeared with the Meteor. Already, rocks crumble down into the crater, threatening to plunge them all into the boiling abyss below.

There’s no way out.

“Is this how it ends?” Gladio asks. “We just started.”

Ignis shakes his head. “It can’t be.” They’ve come so far. There’s still so much for them to do. Ignis’s dream from Galdin had shown a world ablaze, but not this. Not the center of the Disc, with the four of them giving up and submitting to the angry whims of the earth. They’re meant for something more.  _ Noct  _ is meant for something more.

Wait.

“Do you hear that?” Gladio asks, looking up. There’s a strange rumbling in the air, cutting through the sounds of cracking, bubbling rock.

Prompto points off to the north. “There!”

Another dropship flies into view, larger than the ones that crashed to the ground at the center of the great crater. It’s headed straight for them.  
Ignis gasps, “The empire? Now?” His nausea is back, rising along with the panic of knowing they’re trapped. They’re not equipped to fight the entire army right now - not unless Titan deigns to make an appearance right away and come to Noct’s aid. They’re not ready for this.

He prays that it’s Ravus.  
The dropship’s door lowers, revealing a single figure in black.

_ Well,  _ Ignis thinks,  _ that explains the nausea. _

The man from Galdin Quay -  _ Ardyn _ \- is standing there, smiling toothily down at them from the belly of an imperial dropship. 

He leans forward with a grin, tossing reddish hair out of his eyes. “Fancy meeting you here!”  
Ignis looks to Noct for his reaction, but Noctis and the others stare up at Ardyn in stunned silence.   
“It occurs to me I never formally introduced myself!” Ardyn calls, and he spreads his arms with a flourish. “Izunia. Ardyn Izunia.”  
That was it. That was the familiarity he’d felt when hearing the man’s first name. Ignis swallows. Ravus had mentioned that someone had predicted that Noctis would need Titan’s blessing. That person... “Imperial Chancellor Izunia?”

Ardyn bows. “At your service. And more importantly, to your aid.”  
Gladio steps forward, placing himself between the dropship and the rest of them, but he stays silent. Ignis moves closer to him, appreciating the security of his bulk. Prompto must notice his distress, because he places a careful hand on the small of his back, offering a bit of Lucian magic through the touch alone. It works the way it usually would if any of them were on the brink of collapsing in the midst of battle, and Ignis appreciates the fragment of Prompto’s strength.

Noctis steps closer as well, more towards Gladio than Ignis, and stares up at Ardyn, fists clenched at his sides. The molten rock bursts and bubbles ever closer to them, and the fiery light of it casts dangerous shadows across his face, promising the wrath of a king.

The four of them stand together in formation like that, staring down the leader of the nation that destroyed Insomnia.  
Ardyn must sense their distress. He assures them, “I guarantee your safe passage.” He pauses, then adds, “Though you’re always welcome to take your chances down there.” Gods, even his voice has the dramatic flourishes of a man performing.  
None of them move.  
Another poisonous smile. The chancellor leans forward. “Buried among the rubble, is it?”  
Ignis is the one to break. They’ve come so far; there’s no way they can stop now for the sake of a war when all of Eos hangs in the balance. He swallows his fury and looks to Noct. “Dying here is not an option,” he says. “We have no choice, Noct.”  
Noctis looks at him finally; the red light of the divine has faded from his eyes, leaving only the steel of the Lucian kings. He frowns, then looks off to the side, scowling at the spot where Titan once rested. Finally, he says, “I know.”

“Then we have an agreement!” Ardyn purrs, and the dropship descends further towards them. “Quickly, now, we’ve not much time to waste before this place gets too hot for comfort.”

Ignis thinks he hates him.

Gladio places a hand on Ignis’s back. “Let Prompto go first. He’ll just make sure.” 

“And you, Gladio?”

“I’m not going anywhere until you two get somewhere safe.” He nods to Prompto, who swallows but heads towards the dropship anyway, clambering up over the lip of the door to get into the ship’s interior. Ardyn smiles at him as he enters, and Prompto shies away from him, but he turns anyway and waves to the rest of them.

Gladio sighs. “Okay, Noct,” he starts, but Noctis is already halfway on board the ship by now, climbing in and going to Prompto’s side. “Well, okay. Next time I try to keep him safe, Ignis, just put me out of my misery.”

“Who’ll keep me safe, then?”

“Hm. Keep me around, I guess.”

“Noted.”

“Go on. Get in the ship. This place is about to go molten.” He prods Ignis in the back. “Up you go, Highness.”

“I’m going.” He is, really. But then he hears a sharp bark behind him, and he turns, and,  _ oh- _

“Pryna!” he calls delightedly. 

In a world descending into fire and destruction, he’d not thought it possible that others could survive. But here’s Pryna, barking furiously at him, racing out of the smoke and rubble. The Messenger runs to his side from between two rocks, looking none the worse for wear. She’s back to her normal size this time. “Where have you been?” he asks her, dropping into a crouch.

She doesn’t reply, but she gnaws a bit at his fingers.

Ignis scratches one of her ears. “Come along; we’re going with the chancellor. Have you come to keep me safe with him?” he jokes.

Pryna’s bright blue eyes stare solemnly at him. She nudges him with her nose, urging him towards where Gladio waits. The Disc shakes again, ominously, and the earth cracks not far from them, spilling bright red rock out onto the plateau.

“Fine,” Ignis says. “I get the message; I’m going.”

“Go, Ignis, c’mon,” Gladio urges. “Carry her if you have to. We need to get out of here.”

“I’m going,” Ignis insists, and he scrambles up over the lip of the dropship. Pryna follows behind, keeping herself pressed up beside him. Gladio climbs up behind him, and not a moment too soon: the ground bursts in a spray of molten rock, sending it splattering across the plateau where they had been standing.

The dropship door closes, and the ship rises, and they are absolutely locked in here with the imperial chancellor.

“Welcome to my humble ship,” Ardyn says with a flourish. “I’m afraid I’ve not many comforts in here, seeing as it  _ is  _ a military vessel. Please do make yourselves at home on the floor, though.”

Noct drops to the floor, cross-legged at once, and Prompto carefully lowers himself to the ground beside him, keeping an eye on Ardyn. His fingers tap at his leg in a gesture that Ignis knows means he’s itching for his gun. He appreciates the vigilance.

Ignis settles himself in a position a bit closer to the door, leaning against the faintly vibrating wall of the ship for support. Sitting down only reminds him of how weary he is; he almost closes his eyes on instinct, but Gladio takes a seat beside him with a nudge to the shoulder, keeping him alert.

“You okay?” Gladio asks him quietly. “You did a lot out there.”

“I’m fine,” Ignis insists. “Bloodied and weak, sure, but there’s no lasting damage.” None that Gladio can see, at least; he feels raw where the covenant had been, and where his light had lived before that. That wound will need more than just an ether to heal.

“You did good.” Gladio’s hand lands carefully on his shoulder. “We can talk about the whole ‘running away’ thing later, okay? When you’re better?”

“When I’m better,” Ignis agrees softly. So Gladio has at least partially forgiven him; that means more than Gladio will know. “Thank you.”

“‘Course, Iggy.”

Ignis ducks his head and focuses on the soothing texture of Pryna’s fur beneath his fingers. She’s tense when he touches her, on guard and unhappy, and he scratches at her chin to get her attention. “Pryna,” he says softly. “Pryna, what vexes you?” He follows her line of sight as well as he can, frowning when he sees that she’s staring right at Ardyn Izunia. “The chancellor?”

She growls.

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “He’s not harming us.” Not yet, at least.

But,  _ gods,  _ he’s walking over to them. Pryna snarls the whole time it takes for him to approach, baring her teeth.

Ardyn smiles, and everything about it is poison. “Your dog doesn’t seem to like me.”

Ignis pulls Pryna a little closer, burying his fingers in her soft fur, and says, “No, I suppose not.” He tries his best to look Ardyn in the eye, but the bright yellow of his irises is too sulfurous for him to stomach.

Another smile; something flashes in his eyes that Ignis fears. “A pity. She seems a loyal companion.”

Pryna growls again, baring her teeth.

Ignis shushes her as quietly as he can, running his fingers through the scruff at the back of her neck. “Easy, Pryna,” he murmurs. “We’ll be out of here as soon as we can.”

She doesn’t lean into his touch like she usually does. Instead, she barks, low and guttural and vicious, in such rapid succession that if Ignis didn’t know better, he’d think she was talking. He’s never heard her so upset before.

Ardyn crouches before Pryna, never ceasing his unsettling smile. “Dogs are clever beasts, aren’t they?” he asks. Ignis thinks he’s talking to him, but Ardyn’s golden eyes never leave Pryna’s. “Dogs will follow you to the ends of the earth, supporting you in all that you do. They know their masters.” His gaze ticks towards Ignis. “Take care that you do not change, or she may not recognize you anymore.”

Ignis stares back at him, trying to ignore the chills racing down his spine. His head throbs with more than just exhaustion. “Personal experience?”

“I had a companion once.” For a moment, something like sadness almost flickers in his eyes, and Ignis studies him curiously. There’s a hint of something human beneath the mask of grandiosity in this chancellor, slipping past the miasma of darkness that surrounds him. Ignis is nearly tempted to heal him out of sympathy alone. But then Pryna snarls again, and he adopts the soft smirk once more. “But people change.” He stands and walks off.

The further away he gets, the more Pryna calms down. She still growls, and it rumbles low in her throat, but she doesn’t give chase. Ignis pats her head to thank her. He doesn’t like the chancellor with his cryptic words, aura of darkness, or ties to tyranny.

“Iggy,” Gladio says quietly, pulling him aside. “Iggy, this guy’s doing us a favor. Maybe you could ask Pryna-”

“She’s staying,” Ignis interrupts. As if in response, Pryna gnaws carefully at his exposed thumb. Ignis looks down at her, silently thanking her for her presence. She knows just how valued she is.

“Ignis.” Gladio leans closer. His eyes flicker to Ardyn and then back again. “I know he’s the chancellor. I don’t like it. I hate him on principle. But we shouldn’t set a divine Messenger on him in his own ship. Not when we’re currently at his mercy.”

Ignis rolls his eyes. “Don’t you think that the divine Messenger is a better judge of character than any of us?”

“Iggy-”

“Pryna’s staying.”

Ignis startles at the sound of Noct’s voice, rough and firm. He looks towards Noctis, but the prince has already turned back to face Prompto, hunching his shoulders away from Ignis and the rest of them. Ignis frowns, but he supposes he should have expected this. Noctis has no need for him right now, and he has no reason to want to talk to Ignis. Until the next god needs to be woken, Ignis may as well be dead to him. “Thank you, Noct,” he says anyway, quietly enough that he doubts he’ll be heard.

_ I’m sorry,  _ another part of him says, but he keeps that silent for now. He doesn’t want to alert the chancellor to the fracture in their party that he’s caused with his departure.

Said chancellor breaks the tense silence without being prompted, though, asking, “Where shall I leave you?”

“Outside the Wiz Chocobo Post is fine,” Gladio says immediately, looking up to study Ardyn. It’s a smart choice, Ignis admits to himself: the outpost is neutral enough that it doesn’t give any indication of their true desired whereabouts, and it keeps the eye of the chancellor far away from Lestallum and its inhabitants. Iris and the rest of the Insomnian refugees will be safe until their group returns.

“Done,” Ardyn announces, and he nods to one of the quiet troopers stationed off to the side. The trooper lurches into motion, heading towards what must be the cockpit of the vessel.

“I don’t suppose you’re including our car in this mercy mission,” Gladio says.

“I’m afraid I’ll be no help in that regard.” Ardyn gestures to the interior of the airship around them. “As you can see, my ship can only hold so much. You’re out of luck.”

Flatly, Prompto says, “So your guys have it.”

Ardyn holds his hand to his chest, looking wounded, or whatever approximation he musters. Everything about him is a facsimile of the real thing; of humanity. “Not  _ mine,  _ my dear soldier.”

“Crownsguard,” Noct corrects sharply.

Ardyn’s golden gaze slides over to Noctis. “Forgive me,” he says, smiling. “A slip of the tongue, nothing more. It comes from being surrounded by magitek troopers in my...ah, profession. Which, as you may or may not know, does not allow me the control of the army. If Niflheim has indeed seized your precious car, I would be hard pressed to get them to comply even if I did ask that they release it.”

Noctis steps forward. “That car,” he says firmly, “is ours. Make it happen.”

“Noct,” Gladio says. “C’mon. Don’t threaten him.”

“I’m not threatening anything. I just want the Regalia.”

The dropship shudders, knocking them all a bit off balance, and Ignis’s stomach swoops; they’re descending.

“Oh! It seems we’re out of time.” Ardyn tips his hat to them. “Ships move quickly, after all.” He waves a hand, and the door of the ship’s main bay opens up, revealing the forested road in the middle of the Nebulawood, just a short walk from the Wiz Chocobo Post.

Noctis scowls. “We’ll get it ourselves,” he mutters, and he leaps out of the ship and into the reddish light of the dusk. 

“Uh,” Prompto says, and he grimaces, then looks at Ardyn. “Thanks. I guess.”

Ardyn bows. “It was my pleasure.”

“...Right.” Prompto hops out of the ship as well.

Gladio puts his hand on Ignis’s shoulder. “Out with you,” he encourages. “C’mon, we need our sleep. Don’t want to impose on this guy.”

“I would never begrudge you a kindness, Master Amicitia,” Ardyn simpers. “Not when you and your king have lost so much at the hands of my allies.”

The hand on Ignis’s shoulder tightens. “You’re too kind,” Gladio tells Ardyn, and that sounds like some sort of threat. “Move, Ignis,” he orders again, through what sounds like gritted teeth, and Ignis hastens to obey him.

Noctis whistles. “Pryna!” he calls, and the Messenger lifts her head, looking over her shoulder to where Noctis is already heading down the road towards the outpost.

Prompto, walking along beside him, pats at his thigh. “C’mon, girl!” he coos.

Pryna looks up at Ignis, then back at Noctis and Prompto. She whines.

“Go to them,” Ignis encourages. “I’ll join you in a moment. Gladio is here to keep me safe.”

That’s enough to convince her; Pryna trots off to join the others, following them towards the outpost.

Ignis moves to follow at a distance, but Ardyn makes a quiet noise to get his attention.

“A word, if I may, before you go?”

Ignis looks to Gladio.

Gladio’s eyebrows set into a hard line. He scowls at Ardyn, probably about to insist that Ignis come along, but he decides against it. Best not to anger the enemy, after all. He nods shortly and steps a short distance away, out of earshot but keeping Ignis in view.

“What do you want?” Ignis asks Ardyn bluntly, abandoning any attempts at diplomacy. His tutors would be appalled if they could see him now.

“Hungry?” Ardyn asks him, holding out an apple.

Ignis stares at the apple, then at Ardyn’s face, and then back again. “No.” Another lie. He thinks he might be getting good at it.

“Are you quite sure?” Ardyn pockets the apple, creasing his eyebrows in something like sympathy. “In my time, I’ve been around the ill. I know someone who’s drained when I see them.”

Interesting word choice. Ignis narrows his eyes, and the vicious part of him from the gates of Cauthess rears its head again. “I don’t know what your game is,” he says quietly, “but I do not trust you. Mark my words, Chancellor: if any harm should come to Noct because of you-”

Ardyn lifts his hands in surrender, eyes wide. “I mean him no harm, I assure you,” he tells Ignis. “The king of Lucis is none of  _ my  _ concern. I have a vested interest in his wellbeing.”

“I’d thank you if you took your vested interest far away from here.”

“I know when I’m not wanted; I’ll take my leave. Take care,” Ardyn tells him. “Making covenants is dangerous work, Your Highness.”

Ignis freezes.

“What did you-”

Ardyn gives him another smile and sweeps his hat off his head in a bow; the dropship rises slowly into the air, buffeting Ignis with the harsh wind of its ascent. “Farewell,” he purrs once more, and then his voice is lost to the growl of the engines.

Ignis stands in the shadow of the airship, gaping up at its underbelly as it shrinks into the ceiling of the world. The ship reaches altitude, turns, and speeds off to the north, heading into the growing night. Ignis hardly acknowledges when Gladio rushes up to his side, still staring up at the sky where the chancellor had been.

“Ignis?”

“He knows me,” he says flatly.

“What?”

“He called me ‘Your Highness’. He knows who I am.”

Gladio swears quietly. “Think anyone else knows, or just him?”

“I don’t want to find out.” Ignis turns on his heel, heading for the outpost. “We should lay low.” He doesn’t wait for Gladio’s answer.

Ignis finds what he’s looking for easily enough: Noct’s sitting on a barrel beneath a softly glowing lantern, tapping his foot to the distant music. He’s not quite sleeping yet, which is a miracle in itself. 

Ignis approaches carefully. He doesn’t try to sit. He doesn’t think that the penitent are meant to sit beside those to whom they apologize, especially not if they’re kings touched by the might of the gods themselves. He stands instead, bowing his head. “Noct,” he says softly. “May I have a moment?” 

Silence stretches on between them for a few moments. The weight of Noct’s gaze doesn’t fall on him, and Ignis thinks that might be even worse than if he were glaring. But at last, cold as the covenant in Ignis’s heart, Noct says, “Oh, do you talk about things with people now?”

Ignis winces. “Noct, I can explain.”

“You don’t need to.”

“But-”

“There’s no explanation,” Noctis interrupts sharply. His bright gaze flicks to Ignis, and Ignis flinches at the betrayal he finds there when he dares to meet it. “You left, Ignis.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, Noctis. For you. For all of us.”

“You promised me that you would stay with me!” Noct snaps.

Ignis tries, “And I will, as much as I can, Noct, but I was trying-”

“You said,” Noctis says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that is not unlike the way the ground shuddered at Cauthess, “that your destiny is mine, as mine is yours. You  _ said  _ that you would stay by my side.”

“I wanted to, Noct.”

“You didn’t even talk to me, Ignis. You just-” Noctis clenches his fists in his lap. “You just left.”

“Noct.”

“I think you should do it again.” Noct turns his head away. “Just go to bed.”

Ignis falls back a step. “Of course,” he says quietly. He knows a command when he sees one; though he’s a prince in his own right, he’s still a sworn servant of the Crownsguard, and beholden to the orders of his king. He nods his head, throat tight around the threat of tears. “Highness.”

He leaves.

Prompto and Gladio try to initiate conversation, but Ignis waves them off listlessly, heading into the caravan. He doesn’t bother cleaning himself before he drops into their rented bed in his miserably filthy uniform. His sleep is dreamless that night, brought on by his mounting exhaustion. It plunges him into blackness.

_ You lied to me,  _ he tells the gods.  _ This wasn’t the right thing to do. _

There’s no reply.

He sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [triplehelix](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com) and say hi!


	9. recuperation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a moment of rest before the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooh, it's been a while! things have been crazy while I finished up school and everything, but I hope that I'll be able to bring us back into a rhythm. this chapter was rough in general to write, but the story's picking up! I'm super excited for what's coming soon!

At least the gods cared enough to reward him with rest.

It feels almost wrong to wake up from a dreamless slumber. He’s so accustomed to the sensation of waking from visions of darkness and fire that the gradual stirring into consciousness is startling. He scrubs at his eyes to banish the haze of sleep from his gaze, trying to remember exactly why his entire body aches. His muscles protest every movement he attempts to make, forcing him to move with care. And his heart pounds out a hollower rhythm than the one he’s always known, reminding him of something he’s lost.

Right. The covenant.

No wonder he doesn’t quite feel like himself. 

Ignis lets out a sigh, digging through the armory of the kings for something that might give him comfort. It’s not worth it to waste the curatives made from Noct’s magic, and using his own abilities would probably only serve to harm him more. He almost reaches out for the Trident, if only to hear its music, but it wouldn’t be for the best. So he lets his hand drop back to the blankets in a flurry of sparks, defeated.

Pryna lifts her head from where she’d been curled up at the foot of the bed and makes a quiet sound of greeting. Ignis extends a hand to her and she stretches languidly, shaking herself out before trotting up to the head of the bed to sit beside him. 

“Haven’t abandoned me yet?” Ignis asks her, and he reaches up to adjust the band on her leg. “You’re a more loyal companion than I.”

She blinks.

“Don’t be like that,” he sighs, sitting up against the pillows. “I have a duty to the king as well as you lot. I swore an oath.” His other hand finds its way to his neck, resting on the small silver weight of the skull that’s tied there. The weight of it has never been closer to a shackle, despite the fondness he has for it. “And now look at me. I should have just gone to Lestallum. Maybe then the damned chancellor would have taken us all on a road trip to the Disc.”

Pryna bumps her nose into his arm, urging him to pet her more.

“You didn’t like him,” he tells her, obliging. Her fur is warm from the soft touch of the morning sun. “Do you feel it too?”

A low growl rumbles out of Pryna’s chest, but she doesn’t get any more agitated than she was. She settles down closer to him, lying down so Ignis can scratch at her belly. It’s such a domestic thing to do that Ignis nearly laughs at the absurdity of it all: here they are, the high priest of the gods and a divine Messenger, lying in bed together past their normal waking time. Ignis closes his eyes again, savoring the sweetness of the moment. If he doesn’t look around, he can almost imagine he’s back home, normal and royal and at peace.

And home is...he’s not sure. Not here, surely. It’s somewhere back before all of this. Before death and fire, before danger and covenants, before he left the group, before  _ Noct- _

He’s not sure anymore.

There are more urgent matters at hand now. There’s no need to dwell on the past.

“Pryna, I hate to keep bringing this up, but I must know about this Ardyn.” He tangles his fingers in her thick fur, scratching idly there while he tries to formulate his thoughts into something more coherent. “I suppose you won’t tell me why he carries such darkness within himself,” he says. “I fear that he’s sick far beyond my capabilities.” He’s never even healed a Scourge victim before; he’s not sure how he’s go about relieving this man of his pain.

Pryna whines, but she says no more.

Ignis hangs his head. “I understand.” 

If the gods do not wish him to know everything, then that is their will. He’ll trust them. They’ve not led him astray so far.

He winces -  _ of course they did; they made you leave -  _ but the truth of it is the same. The Six have not led him to any harm that was not an important part of his duty as Oracle. If his friendship with the king is the only collateral damage, then he’s doing everything according to plan. 

It would be nice if he could actually know the full extent of the plan, though.

He sighs. “It’s never easy, Pryna, is it?” he asks.

She whines again.

“But we’ll make it through,” he assures her. “And we’ll see Luna and Ravus again. I know that for sure. It surely wasn’t coincidence that we came across each other at the Disc. Did you miss him? You kept disappearing. I’m sure he would have loved to see you.” He falls silent, focusing on Pryna’s warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing. “And then Titan as well.”

Yes, the covenant. It all comes back to that. He keeps forgetting that he’s recovering from having part of himself taken away with such force that he knocked himself unconscious on a king’s tomb. 

He’s probably a mess.

“I need a shower,” he tells Pryna. “Come on, let me up.” Pryna sniffs at him and then sneezes. Ignis flicks at her ear. “You’ve made your point. Up, Pryna.”

The Messenger snorts again, but she rolls over on her back to let him out of the bed. Gingerly, Ignis rises to his feet, wincing at every joint that decides to crack in protest. He reaches down to rub between her ears, and she lolls her tongue out in something approximating a smile.

“Yes, you’re quite endearing,” he says fondly. “Go see what Prompto’s up to while I’m showering, would you? He’s been fawning over you since he saw you and Umbra.”

Pryna licks his hand and rises to her feet, leaping down from the bed. She noses her way past the open door and disappears into the rest of the caravan.

Ignis misses her already. The divine have always been easier to talk to than people; they don’t really mince words when they do deign to speak to him. They’re honest, if a little inscrutable at times. He hopes that Umbra is just as much of a comfort to Luna as Pryna is to him. 

He takes another moment to stretch enough until he finds it within his abilities to go to the window of the caravan and peek outside. The sun is lower in the sky than he’d expected; he knows that he must have slept late, but it looks as if it’s about eight in the morning. The muted cries of chocobos drift in through the cheap glass; he smiles. He’s never seen chocobos in person before. There’s a first time for everything, it seems.

He pads out of the bedroom and into the bathroom just down the narrow hallway, snagging a towel on the way. He closes the door behind himself, thankful for the privacy and the fact that nobody has come in to disturb him just yet. Small victories. Small victories.

Thought he doesn’t particularly want to, it’s hard to avoid looking in the mirror over the sink.

It’s not a pretty picture.

His hair hangs limp and dirty across his forehead, full of ash and blood. He supposes it comes from over a week without showering. But no shower will be able to erase the darkness beneath his eyes, and the way that his cheeks are just a little hollower, hinting at the stark bone structure underneath. There’s no Meteor-bright light in his eyes; only ice and golden light lending themselves to a tired green.

If this is him after two covenants, what will he become after his fifth?

“Gods,” he rasps, rubbing at his chin. “I don’t look like an Oracle at all.”

He can change that. Appearances are easily altered, and he can become the Oracle again if he just tries. It’ll just take some work.

He strips out of his clothes, setting them carefully on top of the closed toilet seat. Now that he’s out of them, he’s able to properly mourn the way that the uniform used to look. The white is filthy with dirt and dust and worse. “Damn,” Ignis mutters, and he pokes his finger through a hole that’s been burned through one of his pant legs. He’s not sure how he’ll manage to fix it this time. He can mend rips fairly well, thanks to the hobbies he’d picked up in the Citadel, but if the fabric is just charred away, he’ll need to patch it.

Ignis sets down his uniform and sighs.

At least there’s no blood on it.

Ignis rubs at his arm out of instinct, thankful for the magical bandage that Noct gave to him. The bandage, since it was under his clothes, escaped the worst of the abuse from the elements, and there’s no hint of a sulfurous tinge there. Small blessings. Small victories.

He’ll take what he can get.

The final article he removes is his pair of gloves. It’s been a while since he’s taken them off, and he’s loathe to do so. Without the gloves, he can’t help but feel like he’s missing some part of himself. Bare skin brings him closer to touching the darkness he feels whenever the night falls or he gets too close to people like the chancellor. Even though it’s the middle of the morning and the sun shines through the tiny window in the bathroom, Ignis can’t help but shiver at the mere thought.

He reaches into the shower and turns the tap to get the water running. He figures that at least Gladio would have already taken a shower, so hopefully it won’t take too long to warm up. To his surprise, the water is immediately warm to the touch, so he steps in with a sigh of relief as soon as the warm water hits his leg. The temperature soothes the ache to a degree.

There’s some of his soap already in here. Gladio’s the most prepared of them all, being the King’s Shield, so it must have been him who set all of their stuff out for them to use. It’s a kinder gesture than Ignis might have expected after such a harrowing day - or week - and he resolves to pay Gladio back somehow.

When he reaches up to touch the spot where he’d knocked his head against the tomb of the Mystic, he finds nothing but hair and unmarred skin. It’s a curious feeling, especially when his head still aches. He’s grateful for the elixir that Gladio had given him, though, or else he’d certainly have reopened the wound during the trial of Titan.

He steps under the spray, ducking his head so it gets soaked first. It patters against his temples with a warm, soothing rhythm, nothing like rainfall. The water runs rust-red down his chest, sending rivulets of old blood swirling down into the drain. Ignis blocks the stream of water with his toe, watching the patterns of red shift and change as they seek a way around him. It’s not often that he sees his own blood. Most of his wounds leave him spotless, but it seems that the magic of the bandage on his arm only extends to his clothing. He moves his foot and the bloody water rushes down the drain. Is this how Titan felt, standing and changing the flow of molten rock below his feet?

Ignis wishes for the covenant he’d forged and lost; everything had seemed easier then. He’d known where to set his feet, and where to leap, and when the earth would fail him. After the sureness of stone in his heart, he feels curiously off balance.

He tilts his head back to push his hair out of his face, letting the water rush over his face. He’s not had a luxury like this for some time. It makes him yearn for the comforts of Insomnia, and of his bedroom and possessions now surely turned to ash. He’d left so many keepsakes back there, brought over the years by Umbra and Pryna and Gentiana to keep him happy and remind him of his identity. 

There must have been some ash on him as well, drifting over across the Lucian Sound from the ruins of their city. Perhaps some of that is from home. And now he’s letting it all wash away. 

He doesn’t stop it, though. The water warms him more than empty platitudes and sympathy ever could, and for a moment it almost heals the aching wound where Insomnia used to be. It was a good home for a long time. 

He’s been in here long enough.

Loathe as he is to leave this little enclave of warmth and security, Ignis knows that the hot water isn’t eternal the way it used to be back in the Citadel. He turns off the tap with only mild internal complaints, stepping out of the shower and snagging the towel he’d brought with himself. He dries off his hair to get rid of the worst of the water, then wipes the rest of it from his skin. He wraps the towel around his waist - he never knows when one of the others will try to barge in on him.

He takes another look at himself in the mirror. It’s a little hazy with condensation from the steam, but he makes do well enough. The blood and dirt are gone, at least, and his hair is back to normal, if pressed against his face and sodden. The last problem is the week-stubble that’s stubbornly cropped up on his cheeks and jaw. Ignis grimaces; there’s a reason he shaves it. It’s just not his preferred look at all.

“I need a shave,” he tells his reflection. 

He doesn’t have his razor on him, unfortunately, and he can’t be bothered to run back and grab it from his bag. One of the others might try to steal the bathroom while he’s gone; he knows they’re not above that sort of trickery. Fond as he is of them, he’s not eager to have a custody battle for the bathroom while he’s only wearing a towel.

The dagger he pulls from the armory isn’t ideal, but he didn’t realize how much of an utter mess he is. There’s some cream provided with the caravan, at least, so he uses that before carefully running the straight edge along his skin, removing any trace of facial hair. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar motion. The king used to use a straight razor to clean up his beard when Ignis and Noctis were young; he’d ended up teaching both of them to use it. Ignis can’t help smiling fondly as he echoes what he was taught so long ago; there are so many moments of his childhood so inextricably tied to King Regis and to Noct. 

When he’s pretty sure he’s done, he inspects his reflection once more, rubbing a hand along his jawline. He’s gotten everything to the best of his ability, and without any nicks as well. He’s well trained, after all. “Passable,” he tells his double in the mirror. At least he recognizes himself now. He’ll have to put on his usual aftershave when he gets back to his bag in the bedroom. He banishes the dagger back to the armory and goes to leave the bathroom.

He nearly runs right into someone who was hovering just outside the door.

“Oh!” Ignis says in surprise, nearly drawing the dagger again out of instinct. He steps back, grateful for the towel around his waist, and realizes-

Oh.

Only one person has eyes that never fail to fill him with that curious mix of excitement and dread.

“Noct,” he says by way of greeting. “I wasn’t expecting you here.” Not like this. Not vulnerable. Not personal. 

Noct’s eyes flick to his chest and then back at his eyes, gaze turning flinty. “Ignis,” he says with a voice tighter than Ignis had expected. “You used the armiger.” It’s a statement, but there’s something like a question in there. If there weren’t so much frustration in his voice, Ignis might even detect a bit of worry.

Ignis grimaces. “Just shaving, actually.”

Noctis blinks. “Shaving.” 

Embarrassment blooms in his chest. “Apologies.”

“It’s-” Noct presses his lips together and looks as if he might say something more, but then he just ducks his head and leaves the caravan. He doesn’t look back once.

Yes, there’s the stony will that Ignis passed to him. 

At least that means the revelation was a success, so maybe the fallout is worth it.

He considers going after Noct, but he looks down and remembers that yes, he is indeed only in a towel. He needs glasses and clothing before he can even attempt to talk to Noct without making too much of a fool of himself. 

He needs to figure out something to wear.

The contents of his bag are slim pickings indeed. Ignis picks through them listlessly, trying to parse together something approaching a dignified outfit. 

The charred, filthy white and gold of his traditional Tenebraean raiment only makes him sad. He’ll have to find a way to repair it. Maybe they can pick up some fabric at the next outpost, or maybe he can try to muster some of his magic in the way he normally does. It’s a long shot for sure, but he figures he might be able to manage it.

His next best outfit is the casual one he’s still not yet had a chance to wear. It was made by the Lucian tailors as well, designed to be worn in battle if need be, but he’d thought that it would only be worn once they got to Altissia for the wedding. He lifts up the pale blue shirt and turns it this way and that, admiring the subtle sheen to it. The color reminds him of sylleblossoms; perhaps that was the point. The pants and boots are still spotless as well, and he looks forward to trying on the suspenders that go with the whole arrangement. It’s not his usual white raiment by any means, but it still carries enough of home to keep him satisfied.

And then there’s the last outfit, tucked away for a day long ahead that he doesn’t care to think about. He looks at it for a moment, though, inspecting the silver buttons and fine black fabric of the Kingsglaive uniform. The darkness of the fabric is stark against his skin, far cry from the soft gold and white of his usual uniform. Black is for the Lucians. For Ignis, wearing black means duty and fate and Noct ascending as the Chosen. Rising, rising, and then-

He lets go of the uniform.

There’s no need to be thinking of things like that now. There are still so many covenants to forge and give away, and they’ve not even acquired the Ring of the Lucii. At least until they meet up with Lunafreya again, there’s no need to worry about the reality of the destiny ahead of them. Ignis covers the Kingsglaive uniform once more, burying it beneath the dirty remnants of his usual raiment.

There’s still time until he’ll need it.

He dresses himself with haste in the casual outfit, slipping the suspenders up and over his shoulders. The pressure on his shoulders is a welcome weight. He tucks his phone into his pocket, picks up his glasses from the dresser where he’d left them, and heads out into the caravan.

Someone else comes down the hallway towards him. It’s not Noct this time, but another of their band, dressed in traditional black: Prompto. Ignis greets him with a wave.

“Done with the shower?” Prompto asks, sidling past Ignis in the little hallway of the caravan.

“All yours.”

“Thanks!” Prompto slips through the doorway, holding his own towel and change of clothes. Looks like he’s going for his own casual outfit. It’s probably in their best interest to all lie low for now.

Ignis goes to leave, but then a thought occurs to him. “Prompto?”

His tuft of blond hair precedes him when he pops his head back out of the bathroom. “Yeah?”

“What time is it, by chance?”

Prompto screws his face up, casting his eyes skyward. “Uh. Last time I checked, it was about ten?”

“Ten? With how low the sun is?”

“Weird, right? Maybe it’s a seasonal thing.”

Ignis hums out an affirmative, frowning. “Perhaps.” He’s never heard of any seasonal changes in sunlight happening before, and they’ve certainly never experienced anything of the sort in Insomnia or even Tenebrae. “Maybe Wiz will have an idea.”

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from the shower, Prompto.”

Prompto salutes. “Thanks, buddy.” And then he withdraws back into the bathroom, and the sound of falling water soon follows.

Ignis runs his fingers through his hair one last time, collecting himself, and then walks out into the daylight.

The Wiz Chocobo Post is a charming place, all told. A few chocochicks rush by his feet as he wanders out between the trees, chirping to each other and to him as they go. In the distance, he thinks he might see Gladio talking with Wiz, and the sun peeks through the treetops, sending dappled shadows all along the dirt and grass. It’s rustic and a little run down and not at all like Insomnia. 

Ignis takes in a breath of air and smiles.

It’s beautiful.

This is the world he’s trying to save. 

This right here, peaceful and happy and quiet, is what he wants the world to be when they’re done. Lit by daylight, with no hint of darkness, is the way the world should look. The world deserves more dawns, with no threat of night.

But for now, there’s work to be done.

And there’s a king that he needs to help.

Noct sits at the edge of a fire pit with his elbows on his knees, roasting a cut of sausage with one hand and resting his chin in the other. There’s no sign of Pryna at his side, so she must have run off somewhere instead of joining Noctis in Prompto’s absence.

Ignis almost doesn’t sit with him. Almost. But avoidance is what got him into this mess, so it won’t solve a damn thing if he leaves Noct alone now. He’s a prince. He’s the Oracle. This is doable. This is the easiest thing he’s done all week.

It’s not.

“Good morning,” he says at last, sitting down on the far edge of the fire. He makes sure that he’s positioned so that their eyelines aren’t forced to meet. He’s learned enough in his diplomacy lessons to at least grant Noct that small courtesy. It’s not anything close to an apology, but maybe it’ll help.

Noctis glances over at him, and his scowl deepens, but he doesn’t send Ignis away, so that’s a start. He makes a small, noncommittal sound of greeting before returning to his cooking. He’s doing a good job of it, really. Maybe he has picked up some skills from their time at camp and the kitchens of the Citadel. One can only hope.

Ignis lets him carry on the silence for as long as he can bear.

“Highness-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“That’s your title.” 

“Not to you.” There’s a fierceness in his voice that isn’t quite the same as his anger.

Now more than ever, though, it is. This furious, betrayed king sitting across from him is not the Noct who Ignis has always known. Ignis and Noct were children together; they were princes together. Ignis doesn’t think that he’s ever meant to be a king in the way that Noctis is, though, and that’s where the two of them have started to fall apart. 

Ignis has only hastened that, he thinks. Leaving camp to wake the gods, while expedient, brought nothing but discord to their group. He might have reunited with Ravus, but he tore something with Noct along the way. It’s there in the way Noct’s head is angled away from him, avoiding too much eye contact. There’ll be no more little hand holding between them for a while. Noct is pale and cold and blessed, and kings do not comfort their Oracles in the way that children do. There is only civility, and duty, and faith in the plans of the gods.

He hopes he can fix things before he needs to wear the uniform he has stowed away.

Ignis clears his throat quietly. “Noct, then.”

A barely perceptible nod.

“Noct, I just - I wanted to reiterate what I meant to tell you last night. What I did was...ill-advised. I should have at least told you where I was going.”

“Yeah. You should.”

“You would have followed me.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

Ignis bites at his lip. “No,” he admits. “And I won’t lie and say that I didn’t regret leaving you behind. But you had your own work to do, and you obtained a Royal Arm while I woke Titan for you. Just as the gods have tasked you with protecting the world, they’ve tasked me with helping you get there.”

“No, I know,” Noct interrupts quietly. “We just...we could have done it together, y’know?”

Ignis nods, casting his eyes downward. “I wasn’t sure if it’d be safe,” he admits. “It wouldn’t have been strategically sound to send both the Oracle and the Chosen into the Disc at once.”

“We could’ve taken it,” Noct protests. “I know we could have.”

“But the danger-”

“I thought you were dead.” Noctis nearly spits it, staring deep into the fire. “I thought you’d died, and that my last memory of you was you telling me to go back to sleep before you left us.”

“You remember that?” Ignis does. It’s hard to forget Noct’s eyes, luminous and starlit, blinking at him from the inside of the tent.

“I remember everything.” Bitter. Betrayed.

_ I did that to him. _

Ignis hangs his head. “I...I know you can’t forgive me immediately. Maybe not ever. In that case-”

“Just…” Noct interrupts him quietly. “I need space, Specs.”

_ Oh.  _ The nickname. Ignis would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed it. He nods, biting at his lip to quell the small smile that threatens to grow there. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Glad we, uh. Got that out of the way.” Noct scratches at the back of his neck. He clears his throat, then looks at Ignis and says, “You’re not wearing your gloves.”

Ignis looks down and makes a quiet noise of surprise. He hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t wearing them. Indeed, now that he’s aware, he can’t stop thinking about how he’s drifting ever closer to touching some remnants of the night’s terrors. “I guess not.” Then, quieter: “Should I be?”

Noct’s gaze flicks from his hands to his eyes and then back again. “No.”

“Ah.” He’s not sure what to do with that information. He wants to put them back on, after all.

“You’re awake.”

Ignis turns and smiles, grateful for the distraction. “Good morning, Gladio.”

Gladio comes around from behind him and sits down by the fire, looking Ignis over carefully. He’s wearing his usual Crownsguard uniform, which appears to have escaped the molten heart of the Disc unscathed. The same can’t be said for his skin; Ignis immediately notices a small collection of burn scars on his stomach. He must have gotten hit with some flaming part of the collapsing landscape of Cauthess. The fact that the scars are even there, though, suggests that the injury wasn’t severe enough to warrant a curative. That, or Gladio is just being as stubborn as ever.

The possibilities are equally likely.

After a moment of observation, Gladio tells Ignis, “You look less like you got hit by a truck.”

“I’ll count it as a victory.” He pauses, then nods. “I feel better,” he promises. 

A quick thumbs up. “Good to hear.” He turns to Noct. “And you, Prince Charmless? How’s the power of the gods feel?”

Noct shrugs. “Heavy, I guess?”

It sounds about right. Ignis nods in silent agreement. Gladio must notice, because his gaze flicks back to Ignis. “You know what he’s talking about?”

“It’s part of the job, yes.”

They fall into silence.

Prompto comes around the corner from the caravan and settles himself down between Noctis and Ignis, eyes flickering between the two of them. His uncertain expression morphs into a sunnier one. “Morning, all!” He resolutely sets about roasting his own cut of sausage, steadfastly ignoring any tension cutting across the divide between Ignis and Noctis.

Ignis thinks that he’ll never cease to be impressed with Prompto’s ability to defuse situations. He could probably be a diplomat if he weren’t a Crownsguard. He nods in acknowledgement. “Good morning, Prompto. Did you have a good shower?”

“Can’t complain.” Prompto raises his arms over his head in a luxurious stretch. “Nice to be at a real place with a real shower. Lestallum was too hot. This place is the best.”

“Objectively the best?” Ignis asks.

“I mean. Have you  _ seen  _ the chocobos, Ignis?”

Ignis grins. “I’ll confess that I haven’t quite yet. Are there plenty for all of us?”

His eyes go wide, gleaming bright violet in the morning sunlight. “D’you mean that we’ll get some of our own?”

“Not to buy,” Gladio rumbles, crossing his arms. 

Ignis nods to acknowledge him. “Not to buy, surely, but renting isn’t out of the question. With the Regalia gone-”

“We’ll get it back,” Noct mutters.

“Of course we will,” Ignis replies smoothly, “but until then, we will need alternate transportation. The most natural source would, of course, be chocobos. I can tell that you’re not entirely averse to the idea.”

Prompto grins. “Opposite of averse, dude.”

Noct sits back; his posture opens up just a little bit more. “You can finally match your hair with someone else’s.”

Prompto gives a large, theatrical gasp and throws a small rock at Noct. “My hair does  _ not  _ look like a chocobo butt!”

“I didn't say it did. That was all you, man.” Noct grins.

“I hate you.”

“That’s treason, probably,” Ignis reminds Prompto. “That’s your king.”

“Can you be my king instead?”

“I’ll get my nation back, and then we’ll talk,” Ignis promises. He hopes that he can achieve that much. The goal is to reclaim the Crystal and purge the world of darkness; reclamation of Tenebrae from the empire is an auxiliary goal.

“If I’m following you now, do I have to wear white?”

“It would certainly match with the theme,” Ignis points out. As if on cue, Pryna trots over from wherever it was she disappeared off to, settling down by Ignis’s feet. Actually,  _ by  _ is a stretch; she ends up lying on top of his shoes, paying no mind to the fact that Ignis does in fact use those to walk. Ignis gestures at her helplessly. “See? White.”

“Speaking of,” Gladio says, “is the attack Messenger sticking around?”

“Honestly, Gladio, just because she didn’t trust the  _ Chancellor of Niflheim-” _

“I’m just saying-”

“Guys,” Noct says sharply, cutting between the two of them. “Come on.”

Ignis leans back; Gladio rolls his eyes but falls silent as well. The four of them sit in silence for a time, accompanied only by the sound of the crackling fire and the cries of chocobos all around them. 

Finally, Ignis quietly says, “Pryna is staying here with us for a time.” He’s not sure how long that’ll be, but she’s never stuck around this long, so he hopes she’ll make this companionship a habit. Maybe it means that they’re still on the right track, and that the gods are leading them along the right path.

He can only hope.

“I’m not complaining,” Prompto tells him, and he fishes for his camera, snapping a few pictures of Pryna. “It’s nice to have the gods on our side.”

Pryna gets to her feet and licks Prompto’s wrist - he makes a quiet, surprised sound - and heads over to sit at Noct’s side.

Noctis looks down at her, then back up at the rest of them. “I’m glad she’s here.”

“I think we all are,” Ignis agrees. It’s almost like they’re back in Insomnia again.

“So.”

Ignis looks at Gladio. “So?” he echoes.

Gladio makes an open-handed gesture with his hand. “Spill. What happened?”

“Where do I start?”

“Learn anything new? Any intel? Anything you saw that we didn’t?”

“Well, there is one key thing,” Ignis admits. He takes in a deep breath and then lets it out. he looks around at all of them, then focuses on Noct. “Lunafreya is safe.”

“Luna? Really?”

“Really.”

“How do you know?” Noct reaches down and scratches at Pryna’s head. “I haven’t even heard from Umbra.”

“Well, I-” Ignis gestures helplessly once more. “I may have encountered my brother at Cauthess.”

“Your brother,” Noctis repeats. His eyes go wide. “You talked to Ravus?”

“Not for the reasons you may think.” Ignis puts his hands up in surrender. “I did not seek him out because of his connections to the empire.”

“Connections,” Noctis scoffs. “He’s the High Commander. It’s not a secret.”

Ignis sighs. “Okay. He’s the High Commander. Yes.”

“And?” Gladio prompts. “Why the hell was he at the Disc?”

“Well, he’s the High Commander, for one. The empire knew we’d be coming.” Ignis looks down at his hands, inspecting his fingernails. “Or maybe there was some sort of divine intervention.”

“You think so?”

“I had a dream,” Ignis admits. “I had a feeling I would meet someone else at the Disc.” He doesn’t mention that he’d known from the way darkness had bloomed from the presence in the dream, and the way that Ravus’s arm was  _ wrong.  _

“Get these dreams often?”

“Often, yes.” Nearly every night. The lucky nights are the ones when he’s either unconscious or close enough so as to make no difference.

“It’s how he got the-” Noct cuts himself off, pressing his lips together and looking away. “Never mind.”

“The what?” Gladio asks.

Ignis shakes his head. “It’s not any big secret anymore, I suppose. And I promised I’d tell you what happened.” He holds his hand out, concentrating on the Lucian magic in his heart, and reaches into the armory they all share. The Trident comes into his grasp more readily than before, already more familiar to him than the daggers he’s been wielding for years. Ignis pulls it from the armory in a shower of sparks, and the Trident of the Oracle gleams in the morning sunlight.

Gladio leans closer. “Those wings…” He looks up to meet Ignis’s eyes. His own are wide with disbelief, glinting amber. “Is this a Royal Arm?”

That didn’t take long. Ignis nods. “The Trident of the Oracle. The ancestral weapon of my line and of a certain Lucian king.”

“Then shouldn’t Noct have it?”

Ignis recoils; he brings the Trident closer to himself. “No.”

“No?”

“It’s the conduit through which my power is channeled. I need it if I have any hope of waking the gods and forging the covenants.” Ignis twirls the Trident between his hands, watching the light glint off the steel at different angles. “I may be the Oracle, but I also need a relic of the kings to do my work.”

“Seems inconvenient,” Prompto says.

Ignis clenches his fist around the Trident, banishing it once more to the armory. “More like mutualism.”

“He can use it,” Noct says, shrugging. “It helps him.”

Gladio leans back once more. “Speaking of work, what do we do next?”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis admits, slumping in his seat. “I only know where Leviathan sleeps. There are rumors of the others, but…” He holds his hands out, palms up, as evidence of his confusion. “We can’t afford to run around Eos on a rumor.”

Altissia is the end goal, of course. If Ravus was right, Luna will meet them there with the Ring in hand, and Noct’s ascension will practically be complete. Hopefully, they’ll have obtained Ramuh and Bahamut’s blessings by that time, but that requires a knowledge of where those gods rest.

Pryna raises her head, nosing out of Noct’s gentle grip to look around. She yips, just once, ears perking up.

Prompto leans forward. “Smell something, girl?”

Pryna looks to him, then gets to her feet. She barks up at Noctis then dashes off.

Noct gets up to follow her, but somewhere along the way Pryna passes behind a tree trunk and disappears. Noct stops short, frowning. “Pryna?” he asks.

“She’ll be back,” Ignis promises, stepping up beside him. “She does that a lot.”

“But what did she see?”

Ignis almost tells him that it was nothing - and he believes it to be so - but then his consciousness prickles with something familiar. It’s not the creeping, oily darkness that usually makes an appearance at the back of his mind. Instead, it’s a lighter, welcome presence, nudging at his mind and announcing its presence. “Noct,” Ignis says on reflex, and he turns to where the light is a compass point in his mind, pointing. “There.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Will he ever see his two Messengers in the same place at the same time?

“Umbra!”

An easy smile immediately spreads across Noct’s face, and he drops into a crouch. Umbra barks joyfully and immediately trots up to Noct, lolling his tongue out happily. Noctis reaches out to him, ruffling between his ears and messing up the way his fur lays. 

“Got a message for me?” he asks, reaching for the sash on Umbra’s back, but the Messenger barks and shies away, running off into the trees.

Hm. That’s unlike him.

“C’mon!” Noct calls to the rest of them, and he takes off running after Umbra. 

“What is it with you guys and the Messengers?” Gladio asks exasperatedly, but he follows suit quickly, keeping pace with his liege. “C’mon, Iggy.”

“Right behind you,” Ignis assures him, and Prompto falls in beside him as guard. The three of them trek after Noctis, following Umbra’s barks of beckoning, venturing out past the confines of the Chocobo Post and into the wilderness of the Nebulawood. 

Soon after they leave the boundaries of the outpost, Ignis’s skin prickles and his hair stands up at the back of his neck. It may still be daylight, but out here the raw potential for darkness is immediately palpable. He’d grown complacent during his time with Pryna when she had warded off the daemons for him. After meeting with Ardyn, though, he’s hyper aware of anything that could harbor something he could heal or fight. Without his gloves, he feels unbearably unprepared.

They burst into a clearing in the midst of the swaying pines. Umbra is there, and Noct crouches before him, and behind them both-

A figure he’s not seen since the night of the Fall, dressed in black and gold and white-

Well.

He’d recognize her anywhere.

“Gentiana.”

She turns her face towards him, small smile still on her lips. “Ignis. Walk with your companion, that she may impart the will of the gods.”

Ignis looks back at the others. Prompto is looking at Gentiana with something approaching awe. It’s the correct thing to do, after all. Ignis doesn’t know how he’d react if he knew that Gentiana was one of the Six walking among them. It would probably be amusing to see. Gladio nods to him; there’s that rare flicker in his eyes of wonder that he sometimes gets when he’s faced with the reality of Ignis’s station. Then there’s Noct, watching him with wide, unreadable blue eyes.

Noctis blinks at him, then raises his hand just a bit from Umbra’s fur in something approximating a wave.

Approval.

Ignis goes with Gentiana.

“It’s been a while,” he tells her once they’ve gotten out of earshot. “I was starting to get worried.”

“The Oracle is never alone. He walks with the gods always, just as they watch him.”

“That’s a relief, I suppose.” Ignis picks at his nails, desperate for the familiar embrace of his gloves. “Did you see-”

“The second covenant has been forged. The Archaean awaits the call of the king.” Gentiana inclines her head towards him, and her private smile grows. “Well done.”

It’s not often that Ignis receives such direct praise, much less from the lips of a goddess herself. He huffs out a laugh of relief and embarrassment, letting the smile linger. “Thank you, Gentiana.” But then he looks to her and asks, “Who comes next?”

“Eager?”

“Merely proactive.”

“The lord makes light of his burden.” It almost sounds like a reprimand, but Ignis feels only amusement radiating through the connection they share. “Very well. Ramuh waits on the Umbral Isle.”

“Angelgard,” Ignis breathes. The most sacred island in all of Eos. He’d do well not to forget it. Long has it been since even an Oracle has set foot on its hallowed shores. “Of course.”

“He must be woken. The Oracle must go to him, that he may forge a covenant anew.”

“Don’t tell me I have to leave them again.”

“Does the Oracle command this?” Gentiana asks smoothly. Her tone is placid as always, but the covenant in Ignis’s heart gives a twinge of sharp icy energy directly against his lungs. He sucks in a breath, and though the weather is warm, the air in his lungs rushes in on a winter wind.

Ignis swallows and exhales, wishing desperately for the feral warmth of Titan’s covenant. “The Oracle is concerned, Gentiana.” Calm. Collected. Cool. The covenant of Shiva can work to his advantage as well. “I cannot fulfill my duty to the best of my abilities if I am betraying half of myself.”

She opens her eyes, studying him carefully. “The Oracle must remember who he is.”

“I know who I am.” He’d said as much to Titan; he’d named himself before the judging gaze of one of the Six. “I am a Fleuret of Tenebrae, heir to Fenestala, and Oracle of the Six. But I am Crownsguard as well.” He steps forward. “My fate is bound to Noct’s in more ways than just one.”

“The Oracle is bold,” she says, and she closes her eyes, apparently satisfied. “He need not journey to Ramuh on his own.”

Ignis breathes out a sigh. “Thank you, Gentiana.”

“Though Angelgard is not meant for any but the Oracle. Sacred is the ground upon which Ramuh rests.”

“Then I’ll go onto the island alone,” Ignis insists. “Just don’t make me leave them behind again.”

Gentiana’s smile fades, just a bit. “The gods did not force any directives upon the Oracle.”

“And what of Pryna? She seemed to support and enforce your will.”

“Pryna lent aid of her own free will, as Messenger and familiar to the Oracle.” The ice in her tone is no longer welcoming. It sends shivers down his spine, reminding him of his history lessons, and of how the Glacian treated mankind in the time when Eos was young and men were fools.

“I-” He stops. Considers. Inclines his head in something like a bow. “Thank you, Gentiana. Until we meet again.”

She turns her head towards him for a moment longer, and though her eyes are closed, Ignis knows that she is looking into the very heart of him. “Has the Oracle learned the weight of promises yet?” she asks him coolly.

Ignis raises his head from the little bow, drawing himself up straight. “Yes, Gentiana,” he says stiffly. “And the cost of lies as well.”

He blinks, and she is gone.

He sighs.

Perhaps he overstepped his boundaries with her today. Challenging a goddess is not a trivial thing.

Oh well. There’s nothing to be done about it right now. She seems to think that their communication for the day is done, at least.

Ignis turns and heads back to the clearing where last he’d left his friends. He finds that only Noct remains in the center of the grass, with Gladio and Prompto exploring the trees around the perimeter. They’re being smart, at least, by scavenging for materials they might be able to sell off back at the post. He hopes they might pick up some ingredients as well. 

“Umbra’s gone?” he asks, walking up to his liege. A pity. He’d wanted to at least say hello to the other Messenger. At least Pryna has decided to stick around. 

“Yeah, sorry.” He doesn’t look very sorry. “He had a letter.”

“Luna?”

“You were right. She’s safe.” Noctis frowns. “She has the Ring. My dad’s ring. Did you know that?”

Ignis inclines his head. “Ravus may have mentioned it.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“We were interrupted.”

“Okay, well. So she has the Ring.”

“That’s true.”

“I need it.”

Ignis blinks at him. “You do.”

“So we go to Altissia and meet her.”

“That was always the plan.” Ignis looks off into the trees. “Will you marry her?”

Even without looking, he can feel when Noct’s gaze falls on him with unerring focus. “Do you think I should?” Noct asks quietly.

It’s enough of an echo of their earlier conversation that Ignis finds himself tempted to say  _ No. _

“I don’t know,” he says instead, trying to figure out why his skin prickles at the thought of marriage on the horizon. “I think that’s a decision for you to work out.”

Noct’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s about to say something more, but then he scuffs his feet on the ground beside Ignis, huffs, and says, “Yeah. Fine.”

He walks away.

Ignis regrets it.

That could have gone so much differently.

When Ignis left for Titan, he’d destroyed that casual intimacy he and Noct had always fallen into. Noct used to come to him for everything. Before Titan, they would have worked this out together. They would have been  _ close.  _

Hopefully they’ll work their way back to that.

Until then, they have a god to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at [triplehelix](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com) if you want to chat! :)


	10. ramuh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis goes to the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while! i started a new job and have been busy, but here's a super long chapter to make up for it. things should hopefully speed up now. hope you enjoy. <3

Wiz turns out to be a very companionable fellow. Prompto takes a shine to him immediately. It seems like the feeling’s mutual, because within hours, Wiz has Prompto doing some grooming and feeding for the chocobos living at the post. Wiz even tosses Prompto some gil for his efforts, which is always a welcome treat. Ignis catches Gladio giving an approving thumbs-up to Prompto at one point. Prompto just grins, returning to his work shoveling hay into the chocobos’ pens.

It’s peaceful. Ignis is just glad to see him happy. He deserves this, if only for the short time that they have. 

Just over a week is what they decide. A week to collect themselves. A week to heal and learn and prepare for whatever it is they need to do next. They all take some time to themselves; the road trip is taking a toll on them all.

Prompto continues working for Wiz, helping out with the chocobos and turning a small profit. He comes back to the caravan at night smelling of hay and sweat and worse, but he’s always grinning. He spends some of his earnings on more camera film; he’s taking dozens of pictures of the chocobos and the views and the other three of them, soaking in all the sights. Ignis doesn’t begrudge him the lost funds. Prompto earned that gil, after all. 

Gladio takes odd jobs around the Nebulawood and Alstor. Part of the deal with Wiz is that they get discounted access to the chocobos, so Gladio has some form of transportation through the pines and puddles of Duscae. He disappears in the mornings and doesn’t get back until late in the evening, rain-soaked or dust-covered from doing favors for his informants in the mud and swamps. Ignis suspects that it’s exactly what Gladio needs: this balance of physical and mental labor has always been what his friend has sought. He surely could use the time away from a group.

They may work well together, but at the end of the day a Shield stands alone. A lone guard for a single monarch.

He’s adopted Ignis into that protection, though, and for that Ignis is grateful. He knows, though, that he will never come close to meaning as much to Gladio as Noct does, and he’s fine with that. Kings have more longevity than Oracles anyway; it’s a better investment of time.

Gladio comes back most nights with notes he’s taken from conversations around the region. He’s helping them plan their next moves. As far as they’re aware, the Regalia is probably impounded at a place called Aracheole Stronghold. It’s impregnable as far as the locals believe, but of course the locals are mostly farmers. They’ve not been trained the way that the four of them have. They don’t have magic in their bones.

The four of them confer on those nights, quietly discussing plans while chocobos croon all around them. The post provides ample noise coverage for them to have these discussions. Strategically, it works out well enough.

In the wake of these conversations and in between them, Ignis stays in and around the post, tending to matters of supplies and healing. He does mending and cooking and all of the domestic things he was taught as Insomnia’s adopted son.

And if he helps heal some sprained ankles and twisted wings on a few of the chocobos, then nobody has to know. The Oracle’s calling isn’t about drawing attention, after all.

It’s worth it just to have the chocobos rub their heads against his hands when he walks past their pens in the morning. They’re sweet creatures, after all. Ignis can see why Prompto adores them so much.

He prefers dogs, but the chocobos don’t have to know that.

It’s a wonderful few days, all told.

That has to come to an end. There’s still much to be done.

Of all people, Noctis is the one to start the conversation. He and Ignis are sitting by their fire pit not far from their camper, picking at the remains of their lunch. They’re sitting in silence, as they tend to do more often than not nowadays. Conversation just doesn’t flow as well as it used to before-

Well.

Ignis doesn’t like to think about it in too much detail. 

Noct twirls a bare skewer between his palms, watching it spin with varying speeds at his whim. “So. Gentiana.”

Ignis picks at his gloves. “Gentiana. What of her?”

“She wanted to tell you something.”

“Well, an Oracle’s work is never truly done, is it?”

Noct frowns. “No, I guess not.” He peers up at Ignis through his bangs. “Seriously, though, are you okay? I know it’s...hard. To be the Oracle and all. The covenant knocked a lot out of you.”

“Literally.” A poor joke, but an easy one. HIs head gives a twinge of pain to remind him of the concussion that’d rendered him unconscious for days.

“It still hurts?”

“No. The elixirs helped.” Noct had insisted he take another one with dinner the day that Gentiana and Umbra had visited. Ignis taps at the side of his own head with his forefinger. “I promise.”

“Good.” Noct flexes his hand, calling one of their remaining bottles to his hand. He turns it over in his hands, then shakes it to test the contents. “We need to make more of these. Or I do, I mean.”

“Take your time,” Ignis assures him. He knows how much the creation of curatives drains Noct. “We’re taking a break for now, and until then I’m here to do healing as needed.”

Noct asks, “Think you’re up to that?” 

“Of course.” He has to be. Elsewise, what kind of Oracle would he be?

“Hm.” Noct shakes the elixir again.

“That’ll fizz up.”

Noctis flashes him a toothy grin, uncharacteristic of him after days of pensive silence. “Think I don’t know that?” he asks, and he banishes the elixir in a burst of starlight.

Ignis stares. “Whose-”

“Prompto’s.” Noct looks over his shoulder to where Prompto is feeding a chocochick by hand.

Prompto pauses and looks over at the two of them. “Did you just put something in my part of the armory?” he calls over, still scratching under the chin of the insistent chocochick.

Noctis shrugs, face once again schools into casual neutrality. “Elixir.”

Prompto gives a thumbs up with his free hand; some seeds spill out of his half-clenched hand. “Thanks, dude! I was running low.”

Noct raises his hand to acknowledge him and turns back around to face Ignis. Miraculously, he’s managed to keep his expression under control. So this is where he’s applying his years of royal protocol training. Ignis doesn’t think he’s even surprised at this point. “See?” he asks, still perfectly neutral.

Ignis stares at him.

The corners of Noct’s mouth twitch.

“You,” Ignis tells him solemnly, “are an absolute menace.”

That breaks him. Noct laughs at last, musical and genuine and light. The post is quiet today, letting the sound of his laughter carry through the air unhindered, accompanied by the pleasant visual of Noctis smiling for once.

They grin at each other, caught up in the lingering memory of the joke.

Just like old times. Like before-

Before-

_ Gods. _

Ignis’s smile falters. The sunlight doesn’t feel quite as warm and comforting anymore. Noct’s smile fades too as they both seem to realize that they’re not exactly on the best of terms.

Noct ducks his head, falling silent again. “I, uh. Had something to do.”

“Of course,” Ignis says at once, standing with such haste he almost goes light-headed. “I’ll be going as well.” He pushes his glasses up in lieu of a proper farewell, damn near dashing away from the fire pit.

“Astrals,” he curses, and he keeps pushing his glasses at his nose, focusing on the uncomfortable pressure to keep him grounded.

Well. That didn’t go well.

Behind him, Noct’s footsteps beat an equally hasty retreat. Ignis doesn’t bother looking; it’d only make him seem desperate for attention. 

Ignis keeps walking until he leaves the chocobo post, walking a few paces into the mist of the Nebulawood. The quiet of the pines enshrouds him, and the mist tickles his arms with coolness, settling him down. Ignis rests against a tree, struggling to get himself back in order. He’s the Oracle. He should be better than this. He  _ is  _ better than this. He was trained to be a prince, and to deal with situations in such a way that any diplomat would feel lucky to lay their nation at his feet.

Why is it so hard to talk to Noct?

Something nudges at his pant leg, and at the same time Ignis’s awareness lights up in bright gold, telling him that something is  _ here  _ and that it is divine and commands his attention.

He whirls. “Umbra?” he calls, hopeful that perhaps his dear friend has decided to show up once more, though he’s only just left them behind. But there’s no sign of the black dog, and not a trace of Pryna either. Ignis frowns.

He looks down at his feet.

Oh.

A small blue creature with the softest tail Ignis has ever seen is staring up at him. It’s nearly canine in appearance, but strangely feline as well, with a ruby-red horn sticking out from its forehead. It’s undoubtedly otherwordly. Ignis is immediately charmed.

He knows of this creature. Its shape is familiar enough.

“Carbuncle,” he says aloud, and the creature perks its ears up. “It is Carbuncle, right? That’s what Noctis calls his charm.”

It’s a grave oversight, really, to not teach the Oracle of the identities of the host of Twenty Four. He only knows the Messengers that have deigned to meet him or deliver information, only one sixth of the full host. 

Ignis studies Carbuncle for a moment. There’s no overt threat in this creature’s demeanor to compare to the way that Pryna and Umbra carry themselves. Perhaps this Messenger is not built for war and travel in the same way that his dear friends are. “Do Messengers just follow us around all the time? Four of you for four of us?”

Carbuncle sneezes. It sounds more like a squeak than anything else. It’s quite endearing, really. 

Ignis frowns. “Though I suppose Gentiana doesn’t count, technically.”

Another sneeze. Or...squeak.

“So, regarding you and Noct and your duties. You’re his?”

The Messenger tilts its head. Ignis’s phone buzzes.

Ignis stares.

The Messenger stares back.

Ignis checks his phone. There’s a message in his inbox, but there’s no phone number attached. He opens it.

_ Aren’t you? _

Oh.

Ignis shrugs. “That’s a matter of opinion. His, namely. And at the moment the chances of it being true are slim to none.”

Another buzz of his phone. Ignis checks the message.

_ He’s hurt. _

“Yes, I know. I’m the one who hurt him.”

_ That’s a shame. _

“I’m going to get his trust back,” Ignis insists. “I’m not leaving him behind this time. We’re going to get Ramuh’s blessing together.”

_ That’s great! _

“Didn’t you already know that? Don’t Messengers all...talk to each other? Share news?” He’s not quite sure, really. He doesn’t know a damn thing about the Messengers beside the fact that some of them exist and have decided to befriend or at least watch a mortal like him.

_ I just wanted to get you to open up. _

Ignis surprises himself into laughing. “Well, it worked,” he tells Carbuncle. 

The creature squeaks and nudges his leg with its head; the ruby horn on its head pokes at his skin, but Ignis doesn’t mind. He likes this Messenger. He likes that Carbuncle does not speak in riddles, and frankly that he speaks at all is a welcome change. He loves Umbra and Pryna, of course, but frank, clear honesty in his native language is more than appreciated. He hopes Carbuncle knows. It surely does.

Though Carbuncle disappears the next time Ignis blinks, Ignis can’t help but feel warmer after his departure than he’s felt in some time. Maybe Carbuncle did have a point about opening up. Taking action. Actually thinking about his actions and their consequences.

Ignis slides down the trunk of his pine tree, sitting with his back to it and staring through the trees to the distant glimmer of Alstor Slough, wondering if maybe Noct waits down there, fishing and finally having some peace.

It’s a pleasant thought.

He breaks his silence at dinner time, waiting until they’ve all nearly finished the garula sirloins he’d prepared for them. “We need a plan for Ramuh.”

“So we’re doing this?” Gladio asks, looking back and forth between Noctis and Ignis. He’s searching for something in their eyes that Ignis can’t possibly fathom.

Ignis shrugs. “What choice do we have?”

“There’s always a choice.”

Ignis stares at him. 

_ There’s always a choice. _

Not for Oracles. Not for kings.

“Right,” he agrees softly instead of telling that particular truth, “but time is of the essence. Ramuh must be woken.”

“Well, where’s Ramuh sleeping?”

“Angelgard.”

“We can’t go there.”

“I can.”

“You’re not going alone. Besides, how are we even gonna make it to the island? We don’t have a boat.”

Ignis frowns. “We’ll find a way.”

Prompto asks, “Can’t we ask Ardyn to lend us an airship?”

Noct scoffs, “Are you forgetting that the empire slaughtered Titan just now?”

“He’s not dead,” Ignis insists. “As long as the covenant exists, he is tied to this plane and to his form. He was merely vanquished.” He takes off his classes, rubbing them clean with his shirt. “But that’s beside the point. The empire is dangerous. I don’t like Ardyn Izunia, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Why?”

“He scares me, Gladio. He should scare all of you too.”

Prompto protests, “But he-”

“I’m not going to argue about this. Can you please just trust me and agree that we will not go seeking this man out for aid?”

Noct frowns. “Fine. But if we can’t get an airship from him, what do we do?”

Ignis sits forward in his seat, swallowing his pride. No nerves. Calm. Cold as the Glacian herself. “Consider this: we obtain an airship ourselves.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Gladio, I’m not.”

“It could work!”

Gladio scoffs, “Prompto, you agree with this?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Prompto gestures to the chocobos. “These guys can’t make it to Angelgard. They’re chocobos, not  _ whales.” _

“And the empire offers a much more viable option,” Ignis adds, nodding to Prompto to thank him. “Ravus told me that he remains with the empire to help Luna and me. What is the point of having a brother who’s a High Commander if we don’t get to reap the benefits?”

“It’s the enemy army, Iggy.”

“And I am a Tenebraen who is apparently not hunted!” Ignis protests. “Let me try. The worst case scenario is that I die.”

“That’s a bad scenario!” Gladio snaps.

Ignis frowns. “Tell me if you have a better plan, then. Remember who’s the Oracle here.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because  _ you  _ keep reminding me,” Ignis retorts. “I’m not changing my mind. Give me a better idea, and I’ll consider it.”

For a moment, it looks like Gladio might continue the argument. But then he just sighs, scrubs a hand across his face, and says, “Noct gets the final word.”

“Noct?” Ignis crosses his legs and sits back, studying him from across the fire. “What say you?”

Noctis looks at him at last, eyes gleaming almost violet in the light of the fire. For a moment, it’s as if he’s receiving the covenant of Titan again, looking down at Ignis who waits on his knees to heed the orders of his king. And then he blinks, and the light shifts, and his eyes are impassive and unreadable and storm-steel-blue once more. “Ignis, I think it’s dangerous.”

Ignis sighs and nods. “I understand.”

“But,” Noct continues slowly, “I think it could work.” His gaze sharpens, and for a moment Ignis recognizes the face of the king he knows Noctis to be, resembling the shrewd knowing stare of King Regis. “We need to be safe. All of us.”

“Of course,” Ignis says at once, internally sagging with relief. That’s the hardest part, right? Convincing them?

“Okay, so let’s say we  _ do  _ get a ship.” Prompto taps his foot on the ground, clearly anxious. “Why don’t we just fly to Altissia?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gladio asks. “We’ll be shot out of the sky.”

“That’s only if they realize we’re not imperial.”

Ignis shakes his head. “We can’t take that risk. Not with Noct.”

“Not with both of you,” Gladio corrects him.

The weight of Gladio’s gaze is enough to get Ignis to nod, smiling weakly. “That’s what I meant. Crownsguard priorities on the mind and all.”

Gladio looks entirely unconvinced. “Right.”

Ignis shrugs.

“We’ll plan later.” Gladio stands, turns to leave, but then stops. He looks back at Ignis and points right at him. “If your brother gets us killed, Ignis, I swear to Ramuh-”

“Shall I tell him that myself, then?”

“Ramuh or Ravus?”

“Take your pick. I’ve got it on good authority that either will be willing to talk to me.” Ignis flashes Gladio a smile. “It’ll be fine, Gladio. Think of it as an adventure. Isn’t that what Noct said? Just like the Glaives?”

Gladio rolls his eyes. “Oh, like you’re not?”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“You’re Crownsguard.”

“That’s different.”

“In what way?” Gladio demands. “You’re just as willing to die for the cause. More willing, even.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Don’t have to. You never bother telling us about your reckless decisions anyway.”

Ignis stands up, stalking over to Gladio. He may be shorter and smaller, but he knows how to make his presence known. He glares up at Gladio’s eyes, seething, but all he exudes is  _ cold.  _

“I have made my decisions for the good of this group,” he says quietly. Calmly. Dangerously. “I want us to succeed just as much as you do.”

Gladio’s eyes flash amber, brightened and turned fiery by the flames they’ve left behind. “And I want to keep you safe while you do it. You’re making it hard.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Gladio, but risks are part of the job. I apologize for not being your perfect prince.” Ignis steps away from Gladio before his anger can rise up and wash away all of his carefully constructed etiquette and calm and pacifism. The surge of it is stronger than he remembers it being back in the Crown City. He needs to keep better control of it. He ignores Prompto and Noctis and Gladio, heading straight back to the caravan and to his section that he’s carved out for himself. Pryna waits on the bed, eyes closed, but she raises her head when he enters, lolling her tongue out in a canine smile.

Ignis smiles despite his anger and greets her with a ruffle through her fur, settling his glasses down on the table even as he leaps into bed. He throws a dagger at the light switch. It’s partially out of spite and partially out of laziness, but it gets the job done well enough.

Pryna settles down beside his head like she always does, and her breathing soon evens out. Ignis stares at the ceiling and basks in the comfort of her golden presence, trying to force his breathing to do the same.

It’s okay that Gladio’s angry. He’s concerned, of course, and the waiting is putting a strain on them all. Ignis had figured that his departure to wake Titan hadn’t quite become water under the bridge just yet.

He’ll make it right.

They’re waking Ramuh. 

They can do this.

And that’s how they end up here, in an open field in the middle of Duscae, squinting up into the sunlight and waiting for an airship to find them.

“How do I look?” Ignis asks, looking down at himself. He’s pleased that they’d been able to mend his clothes. It may or may not have taken some of his power to do it, but he’d spread the repairs out over several days so the effort largely had little effect in the long run. He’s glad for that; if he’d been unable to do even the simplest mending after the covenant, he’d be concerned. There are still three gods to wake. But he’s back, he’s in white once more, and his hands itch with the restless hum of magic.

Noct reaches out carefully and fixes the fold of Ignis’s collar, laying it down. Absently, he leaves his hands there, perhaps ensuring that the fabric stays pressed against Ignis’s collarbone. “Like an Oracle,” he says at last. His touch is warm against Ignis’s neck, even through the fabric of the uniform.

Gladio taps his foot, frowning up at the sky. “I don’t like this.”

“So you’ve told us,” Ignis replies quietly.

Noctis bites at his lip thoughtfully, smooths his hand over the collar of Ignis’s jacket once more, and steps backwards. He’s avoiding eye contact now, try as Ignis might to get his attention. Why does he get like this whenever Ignis thinks they’re making progress?

“This is suicide. I should be the one going up there.”

“They’re hunting for you lot, Gladio. Not for me.” For some reason. The chancellor knows who he truly is; why hasn’t he set the hunt on him as well?

“This is a suicide mission.”

Ignis shakes his head. “It’s not. Niflheim knows of me, one way or another. They let me into the Disc.” He pauses, grimacing, and adds, “And little as I may like it, Ardyn Izunia has granted me the mercy of anonymity. My status as Oracle is yet unknown, and Luna is still the beloved priestess of Eos.”

“But she’s not the real Oracle. She’ll get found out eventually. What happens when you continue waking gods or healing people?”

“She’s devout, and so are the people. It goes a long way.” Ignis brushes dust from his jacket. “They’ve no reason to suspect me as anything other than divine-adjacent.” He looks Gladio in the eye. “It will work,” he promises.

“And what if you get hurt?” Noctis asks quietly.

“Then I get hurt.” Such is the lot of a Crownsguard serving his king.

“And what if you die?” Quieter. Scared.

“Then I die.” Such is the lot of an Oracle serving his king.

“Ignis-”

“There are three Fleurets, Noctis. There’s only one of you.”

Noct’s eyes flash crystalline. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Patiently, Ignis says, “It means that I’m expendable, Noct.” 

_ It means that I won’t risk you. _

Noct clenches his jaw, staring up at Ignis’s face for another moment. Static electricity crawls along Ignis’s arms, threatening the might of the armory in Noct’s heart. Ignis holds his breath. But Noct just tears his eyes away, mutters, “C’mon, Gladio, we’re getting into position,” and stalks away.

Gladio lingers for a moment, and his eyes flash with something like an argument, but he just sighs, nods to Ignis and Prompto, and follows Noctis off into the trees and rocks at the edge of the clearing. The two of them are better off waiting.

Ignis is left with Prompto.

Prompto’s wearing his red casual outfit today. The pale pants aren’t quite white enough to be an imperial shade, but anything’s better than his Crownsguard black. He’s got the Niflheim look, in a way. People from back across the sea tend to have lighter hair, and he fits the bill far better than the Lucian king or dark-haired, dark-skinned Gladio. It’s a decent enough disguise for now.

They stand together in the middle of the field, squinting up at the sky in silence. It’s just a waiting game now.

Prompto, as usual, is the one to break the silence.

“Hey, uh. Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto?”

“What if I, uh. Showed them this?”

“Hm?” Ignis looks over at Prompto. He’s never seen his friend look so solemn. “Prompto? You look pale.”

“Look.” Prompto raises his right arm and pulls down the wristband roughly, baring the back of his wrist to Ignis.

It’s marked.

Blocky font and stark black numbers and lines, repeated over and over in a telltale pattern. A code. A tattoo.

And Ignis takes a second to stare.

He’s seen these barcodes before. He’s seen them on fallen troopers and on Prompto’s acquired auto crossbow. On weapons. Not on people. Not on Prompto.

“Where did you get that?”

He wasn’t expecting to see that one of his sworn protectors has the mark of a Niflheim weapon on his wrist.

“I don’t understand.”

“C’mon, Iggy. I know you’re smarter than that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Prompto nods; he must have been expecting something like this. He looks down at his wrist and admits, “I’m not completely sure what it is either. But I know it’s not good. I know it’s not us.” He looks up and makes bold, unblinking eye contact with Ignis. “And I know it’s not me.”

Ignis returns the stare, considering the reality of what they’ve been given. Tries to find a positive spin. It’s not easy. “Niflheim, huh?”

Prompto smiles weakly. “We’ve got a lot in common.”

“Does Noct know?”

“Course not. I’m not suicidal.”

“Tell me truly, Prompto.” He studies him in the sunlight, pale and gold and so innocuous in dark red. “Have you been here the whole time? Are you a Lucian?” When Prompto hesitates, Ignis adds, “I know that I am the last person who should be asking you this. I am the least Lucian of us all. But your intentions-”

“I’d never hurt you. Any of you.” Prompto’s violet-blue eyes go hard and flinty. “Listen, I don’t know what it means. I just know that it’s there, and that it’s me, and that I’m not...that. Whatever it is they want me to be. I joined up with the Crownsguard for you and for Noct and for Lady Luna. Being your friend was just a perk.” He stares at Ignis steadily from beneath the pale fringe of his hair. “I’d die for you guys. I’m here to stay.”

Ignis nods. “Good. Listen, Prompto. We’ll get back to this. At the end of the day, it may end up helping us. If you’re willing to use it, that is.” Ignis puts his hand on Prompto’s arm, looking right into his eyes. “Nobody’s forcing you. I won’t tell a soul, even if you say no.”

“I’ll use it,” Prompto says firmly. “Let’s do this.”

A shadow passes across their faces.

Ignis looks up. “Ah. Perfect timing. Thank the gods.”

“That’s your job.” Prompto squints up at the sky, shading his eyes with his right hand. The action bares his barcode to the sun.

“Here goes nothing, as they say,” Ignis mutters. “Okay. Get me up there.”

The door to the dropship folds open in the silent, dangerous fashion of a vehicle of destruction. It blocks out the sun for a moment, casting them into shadow.

Prompto drops to one knee and laces his hands together. “Ready when you are.”

Ignis nods curtly. He does not draw a weapon this time; he will not draw the ire of the troopers today. The Oracle is an instrument of peace. He can be that. He  _ needs  _ to be that. Carefully, he steps back several paces, keeping an eye on the dropship above. It still hovers, threatening as a stormcloud.

It’s time.

He bursts into motion, picking up as much speed as he can before he steps into Prompto’s grip and pushes off to launch himself into the sky, relying on the might of magic in his limbs. The wind whistles in his ears, urging him onwards, and he knows that this jump is the easiest one he will make today. This is just the beginning. Anyone can jump. Anyone can be daring.

He lands just within the doors, quietly coming to rest in main bay of the Niflheim airship.

The troopers, lined up quietly along the sides of the dropship, all turn their heads and look at him in unison. Silent. Expectant.

Ignis swallows.

They wait.

Ignis adjusts his gloves and sniffs. “Well. I’ve been waiting for you long enough.”

One trooper stands to meet him. Its movements are just slightly too jerky to pass as entirely human, even with metal and cloth covering its every surface. The white of its tunic is pristine. Ignis tries to imagine himself in that armor, clad in white and red and gold.

If he could still get his clothes bloody, he would be.

A creaking, mechanical voice intones, “Sir.”

The sound of it echoes through the armor, grating into Ignis’s senses. It almost sounds like a real person would have, once upon a time. Rusted and wrong, just like so much of Lucis. It seems that Niflheim’s touch corrupts even its own soldiers.

He had no idea they could even talk.

Ignis regards it calmly, masking his fear with the ice of the Glacian. “Trooper. Land this ship.”

“Directive unknown. Explain.”

“After the failure to contain the Archaean at the Disc and the  _ carelessness  _ of the border guards who let in the Lucian runaways, the High Commander demands inspections.” He scowls. “And new management.”

The trooper watches him.

“So I will say again, trooper,” Ignis says, and the heaviness in his heart over the destruction of Insomnia rears its head once more, hissing in his voice, “Lower this ship.”

The trooper is silent for a moment. Its joints just barely creak. 

It raises a hand and calls, “Land.”

The ship shudders and smoothly begins to drop to the ground, floating at a pace Ignis knows well. He’s seen the ships descend before; it’s interesting to feel the dread of its arrival from inside.

They come to a rest. The trooper’s impassive mask faces him, waiting for the next order.

“Open the doors, trooper, that my companion may come aboard.”

The trooper reaches out with its long,  _ wrong  _ arm and presses a button.

The doors to the dropship open with a hiss of depressurization, sending sunlight spilling into the dreary interior. Ignis stays staring ahead, not breaking eye contact with the trooper he’s facing.

He waits.

Prompto steps on board slowly and surely. Ignis can hear the sure, dangerous rhythm of the Crownsguard in his footfalls.

Ignis waits until Prompto draws level with him. He does not turn to look at him. Officers do not lower themselves and acknowledge their troopers. 

He remembers Ardyn calling Prompto  _ soldier  _ and he shudders.

The MT’s head turns towards Prompto in a silent question.

Ignis puts his hand on Prompto’s shoulder. “My personal guard.” It’s not far from the truth.

Prompto raises his right arm, baring his wrist to the trooper. Like always, like in battle, his hand does not shake. He remains as silent as the trooper he faces, unflappable in the face of this anonymous mask of steel.

The MT stares for a moment, motionless.

Ignis holds his breath.

“Where is your weapon, trooper?”

Prompto swallows. “Here,” he says quietly, and he pulls his auto crossbow from the armory.

The faceless helmet inclines towards the weapon, then back up. “You were not permitted to speak.”

“He has my permission,” Ignis says curtly. “Though I don’t recall extending the same courtesy to you, trooper.”

The trooper falls silent.

Ignis smiles mirthlessly. “Good.”

It feels good, this.

Power.

“You’re to turn over command of this ship to me.”

The trooper cocks its head to the side, sudden and unnerving and too far to the side to be natural. “This must be cleared with the High Commander.”

Ignis draws himself up and nods curtly. “Inform him that Tenebraen interests are shifting towards Angelgard, and that I wish to employ this ship for such a purpose since-” and here he curls his lip- “you were incapable of protecting the Disc.”

Gods, he hadn’t  _ really  _ considered how Ravus is going to react to this. Granted, Ravus had pointed out that he remains with the empire for his siblings’ benefits. It’s about time that Ignis takes advantage of the Tenebraen occupation.

Nevertheless-

He hopes he’s not imposing.

Too late to turn back now, he supposes.

The trooper goes to the cockpit.

There’s silence.

The squeal of a radio coming to life. 

Crackling.

The broken, mechanical voice of the magitek trooper.

Silence.

_ Please,  _ Ignis thinks desperately.  _ Please. _

Silence.

Beside him, Prompto holds his breath.

The trooper returns.

It stares.

Ignis waits.

“The High Commander approves.”

He hears Prompto’s relieved sigh, though luckily his bodyguard does little more than that. Ignis nods primly. “As I expected. Turn over command of this vessel to me and to my guard.”

“As you wish.”

“Now do shut yourselves down for now,” Ignis suggests. “You’ll not be needed.”

The trooper pauses for a second, almost thinking, and then it raises a hand in a clumsy salute. “Sir.”

It walks to its empty seat, sits down, and immediately falls still.

All around them, the red eyes of the magitek troopers go dull.

Ignis holds his breath.

Nothing moves.

“Holy shit,” Prompto says. “You did it.”

“Holy shit,” Ignis echoes. “I did it.” He looks at Prompto, stunned, and laughs breathlessly. “We did it!”

Prompto grabs him in a quick, exhilarated hug, smiling up at him. He really is radiant. The soldier persona of seconds before has faded back into pure, unhindered  _ Prompto,  _ and Ignis forgets all about the tattoo. It doesn’t matter, because he knows his friend. He knows Prompto. And he knows “Dude,” Prompto tells him, eyes wide, “your brother just saved our lives.”

Ignis runs a hand through his hair, leaning back against the nearest wall. “Yes, I suppose he did.”

He really does need to thank him.

Prompto dashes outside of the ship, waving his hands in the air. “They’re coming!” he calls up to Ignis. “They saw!”

“Get back in here,” Ignis says, “lest another patrol comes back here and sees this one grounded with foreign humans running around it like children.”

“Fine.” Prompto comes back up into the dropship, eyes gleaming more blue than violet in the darkness of the interior. He runs his fingers through his hair, tossing some of the spiky locks out of his face. “Went better than I hoped.”

“I’ll say,” Gladio says, stepping up behind Prompto into the airship. He looks around at all of the dormant troopers, eyes widening. He holds out his hand, and the air crackles with static electricity and the smell of steel. “Are they-”

“Sleeping,” Ignis assures him. “I made sure of it. Where’s Noct?”

“Right here,” Noct says, sidling around Gladio to enter the ship. He kicks at the metal shin of a trooper. “Creepy as hell,” he mutters.

“Don’t wake them up,” Gladio warns.

“Oh, should I not wake them up?”

“Can we not do this?” Ignis asks, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Noctis rolls his eyes and stalks into the cockpit. Ignis resigns himself to it and follows along behind him with Gladio and Prompto in tow.

It seems that the ship was made to be piloted by a single person. Or a single trooper, as it were. There’s ample space in here but only one chair, suggesting that Niflheim has streamlined its aircraft to a point that it needs only one mind or machine running the show.

He hums, “Now...how do we control it?”

Noct splays his fingers along the rows of switches and levers. “Better yet, how do we even turn it on?”

Prompto fiddles around at the controls. “I’ll do it. You guys just go wait.”

“You sure?” Noct asks. “It looks complicated.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m trained, dude. Like, sure, it’s Insomnia tech, but how different can Nif makes be?”

“If you say so,” Noct says dubiously. He slouches off to prod at more of the troopers’ weapons in the main holding area of the ship. He twirls a lure between his fingers idly, inspecting the rest of the ship in silence.

“What the fuck?” Prompto hisses quietly. The controls beep faintly back at him.

Ignis turns. “Something the matter?”

Prompto waves him off, smiling weakly. “Nothing. I think I’m figuring this out. Just let me-” He shuffles at the front, fiddling with something at his wrist. His bracelets.

Ignis looks away.

Something beeps.

_ “Pilot on board. Initiating launch sequence.” _

Somehow, Ignis hadn’t expected the ship AI’s voice to be so...pleasant. It seems so incongruous with the nature of the empire itself. 

Prompto turns to them, grinning. “Guess that makes me the pilot, huh?”

“Think you can fly this thing?” Gladio asks, striding over to peer over Prompto’s shoulder.

In a single fluid movement, Prompto leans forward and obscures the rest of the console. He pushes his wristband back into position on his right wrist as he does it. It’s effortless enough that it seems to be without purpose, if not for the way that darkness pulses with uncertainty in the back of Ignis’s mind when he looks at Prompto.

Ignis wants to heal him.

Instead, he puts his hand on Gladio’s shoulder and pulls him away from Prompto, offering a genial smile in its place. “Let’s give him some space, shall we?”

“Would be great!” Prompto chirps, but his voice is strained. He pushes a few levers, and the ship’s engines roar, then the sound of them fades to a dull, consistent hum.

“Okay, that sounds good,” Gladio encourages. “Can you get this guy off the ground?”

The ship makes a rather insistent groan. Prompto echoes it with remarkable accuracy. “C’mon,” he begs, pressing another set of buttons. “C’mon, work with me here.”

“Told you this was a bad idea.”

“You’re welcome to help, Gladio!” Prompto snaps. He looks over his shoulder. “Finally something you’re not good at, Big Guy? Can’t fight or talk your way out of this one.”

Gladio sighs and waves a hand. “I leave it to you.”

“Thanks!” Prompto chirps. “Besides, I think I’ve got it!”

The ship lurches into motion. A weapons rack shakes in the corner, and a few wickedly sharp axes clatter to the ground, knocking against the motionless feet of a few dormant magitek troopers. A few of them twitch for a moment, eyes flaring briefly scarlet behind their smiling green masks.

Ignis winces and rushes forward to collect the axes. He doesn’t get very far; the ship jerks again, and then Ignis’s stomach sinks as the ship rises into the air at a breakneck pace, knocking him off balance. Ignis swears and stumbles to the side, nearly falling into the row of troopers, but someone’s arms catch him by the waist, holding him up.

“Careful,” Noct says in his ear. “I don’t think Prompto’s used to this yet.”

Gladio whistles. “Never thought I’d see the day when Ignis Nox Fleuret, Oracle of Eos, uses  _ that  _ kind of language.”

“Scientia,” Ignis corrects with a grin. He gently taps at Noct’s hands where they rest on his hips. “Thank you, Noct.”

“What?” Noct’s grip tightens on what must be instinct, and Ignis nearly jumps out of his skin. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Uh.” He lets go like Ignis is on fire, and when Ignis turns to face him, his eyes are exceedingly blue against the faintly red flush of his cheeks. “Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Ignis attempts a shrug. He doesn’t think it looks as casual as he hopes it does. “I’ll chalk it up to your well-trained instincts.”

“You’re welcome!” Gladio calls from up front.

Noct makes a dismissive, vaguely offensive gesture in Gladio’s general direction. He follows it with a lopsided grin, at least, to diffuse the force of the gesture. He’s still red in the face.

The ship lurches again. Ignis sways towards Noct again, steadying himself on Noct’s shoulder on instinct. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Sorry!” Prompto yells from the controls. “Totally have everything under control!”

Ignis calls, “Think of it like a video game, Prompto!” He doesn’t look over to Prompto to tell him, though.

Noct stares back. “Yeah,” he echoes. “What Specs said.”

Ignis picks at the edge of his glove. “Yes. Well.” He blinks, suddenly entirely aware of how close he’s standing to Noct. Gods, that must be why he’s red in the face; he doesn’t want to have Ignis all over him when they’re half-estranged the way they are. And after what Ignis said about himself on the grass…

He can’t do anything right.

He collects himself, stepping backwards with perhaps more haste than intended. “I’m going to check on Prompto.”

Noctis nods shortly. “Right.” His face is still red.

Before he can make any more of a fool of himself, Ignis makes his way to the front, bracing himself in the doorway when the wind buffets the ship, shaking it violently. “Gods, I hate flying,” he mutters. They don’t use airships in Lucis; he’s not been on an airship since his childhood in Tenebrae. This doesn’t exactly make the memories any fonder.

“Sorry,” Prompto says again, more quietly this time. “We’re good. We’re good.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Gladio growls, bracing himself on the wall of the ship. It shudders once more, and his eyes go wide.

“Are you seasick?” Noct asks, leaning forward to study him. “Or...airsick. I guess.”

“Only when this one’s driving!” Gladio snaps.

Ignis goes up to him and places hand on his shoulder. “It’s not you, Prompto,” he assures him. He looks over his shoulder, but Gladio seems to have retreated to confer with Noct. Ignis leans in close to Prompto and asks, “And everything is fine with your, ah...condition?” It’s a terrible word to use. Ignis internally groans, berating himself for the sad state of his bedside manner. Some Oracle he is.

Prompto’s lips twitch up in a ghost of a smile, though, so it couldn’t have been too bad. “It’s fine. Turns out it’s a one and done type of access, so I don’t need to keep it out.” He taps at his wrist, and at the secret that Ignis knows remains hidden beneath the bands there.

“Gladio didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“‘Course not. It’s Gladio. He didn’t see anything, anyway, so no harm done.” Prompto leans forward and points off to the left. “Hey, look. Longwythe!”

Ignis peers out of the section of viewscreen to which Prompto is referring. The massive peak is indeed looming out from behind a few leftover clouds that drift lazily over from Duscae. “Come look at this!” he calls over his shoulder to the other two, then turns back to the scrublands below. It’s hard to believe he was down there just a few weeks ago, exploring and heedless of coming tragedy. He casts his gaze further outwards, seeking out the hint of a blur of smoke or shining steel.

What are the odds that he’ll see Insomnia’s husk from here?

They could probably gain entry if they tried to land in Insomnia and pick through the remains of the Citadel. The provisional Niflheim government there would be none the wiser, and maybe Ignis could see if his old room with its stowed, precious Tenebraen contraband survived the Fall. Even the thought of it sends the familiar chill of ice through him, reminding him of Gentiana’s command.

_ Remember who you are. _

_ Remember who you belong to. _

And then Gladio and Noctis push their way into the cockpit, joking about some obscure reference, and Ignis is just a Crownsguard again.

“What’s all this about?” Gladio asks, peering over Ignis’s shoulder.

Ignis shrugs him out of the way; Gladio’s stubble tickles his neck. “Longwythe,” he says, pointing to their left. “And all of Leide. Look, there’s that motel and the rest area.”

Noct makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement, then points down at the compass on the control panel. “Shouldn’t we be heading more south?” he asks. “Angelgard is way down there, after all.”

“I know where I’m going,” Prompto insists.

“But what if you went just a  _ little  _ to the right-”

“‘Right’ isn’t a cardinal direction, Noct!”

“But you know what he means,” Gladio counters. “South  _ is  _ to the right.”

“Gladio, c’mon, I thought you’d be on my side!”

“He’s royalty, Prom. Hands are tied.”

“I hate everyone here,” Prompto grumbles, but there’s no venom behind the words. He reaches for the controls and adjusts the course anyway. “Turning right, I guess.” As the ship turns, he adds, “Not you, Iggy. You’re loyal.”

Trying and failing to control the smile in his voice and on his lips, Ignis says, “It  _ was _ to the right.”

“Out of the cockpit!” Prompto orders. “Everyone! Now!”

Noct elbows Prompto in the side on the way out. “Sure thing, Captain,” he teases.

“Noct, I’m at least a commander, and I’d appreciate some respect.”

“I’m still your commanding officer.”

“Command yourself to get out of my cockpit.”

Noct puts his hands up in surrender. “We’re gone.” He nudges Gladio out of the way, then taps once at Ignis’s elbow. “C’mon. Let’s leave him alone.”

Before he leaves, Ignis touches Prompto’s shoulder and says, “You’re better at this than I expected.”

Prompto grins. “Pure instinct, baby. Won’t be long now.”

Ignis returns the smile and follows Noctis back into the main section of the dropship.

“Did you see-” Noct stops, biting at his lip. “Well. You know.”

Gladio nods. “Maybe I was just imagining it, but...yeah. I saw it. Way in the distance, y’know?” He ducks his head, hunching his shoulders. It makes him look uncharacteristically small. He picks at a loose string on his gauntlet, pulling the red thread out and twisting it between his fingers.

“Yeah.” Noct sits down heavily on the floor, fiddling with the laces on one of his boots. “Ignis. Specs. Uh. Did you see it?”

“Insomnia?” Ignis asks, but his head is swimming with  _ Specs Specs Specs.  _ “Maybe. I couldn’t be sure. A blur on the horizon, maybe.”

“It can’t still be burning, can it?” Gladio asks.

“It’s been weeks since Niflheim set up there. I should certainly hope not, for the civilians’ sake.” And the Citadel, and his possessions, and the corpses of the people they’d known. How many hundreds perished there that night? How many hundreds did Ignis see from far, far away, reduced to the black blur of Insomnia on the horizon?

Kings and lords and guards and shields.

They didn’t deserve such a fate.

“We’re heading past Galdin now! Just a minute or so before we hit Angelgard! Be ready!”

Ignis fiddles with the edges of his gloves. This is it. This is it. He clears his throat. “Anyway.”

“Yeah,” Noct echoes. “Anyway.”

“So just so we’re clear,” Gladio says, coming around to face Ignis, “the plan is this: we lower you down onto the island or at least as close as we can get. You get Ramuh’s blessing. We bring Noct down. Covenant gets forged. We fly home. Sound good?”

“As good as we’re going to get, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, just great,” Noct grouses. “Let’s just-”

He stops.

Ignis tilts his head to the side. “Noct?”

“Just-” Noctis goes pale, and his eyes fly wide. “Just-”

“Noct,” Gladio says, and he’s at Noct’s side in an instant, holding him by the shoulders. “Noct, talk to me.”

“Sacred ground,” Noct hisses. “Too close!”

Ignis’s heart sinks. 

Angelgard. They must be close.

It’s hurting Noct.

He stoops at Noct’s side, heart racing. “Noct, what can I do?”

“Just-” Noct turns his head to the side, groaning. “Just get the covenant so we can get out of here.”

“Soon,” Ignis promises, trying to keep his voice under control. “Just let me tell Prompto and I’ll go as soon as I can. Can you wait for that, Noct? If not, we can-”

“I can wait,” Noct grits out. “Just  _ go.” _

Ignis leaps to his feet, sharing a look with Gladio before dashing to the cockpit. “Prompto, Noct-”

“I heard. I’m lowering us. You’re going to need to jump. I can’t go any lower than this though, or we’ll risk the engine integrity.” Prompto grimaces and shakes his head. “This is the best I can do, Iggy.”

Ignis closes his eyes. Peace. Calm. Cold. “How high?” he asks, voice steady.

“I can give you a hundred feet.”

A hundred feet.

People have jumped from that high before, right?

“Don’t get too close to the island,” Ignis warns, “lest the Messengers strike you out of the sky. I’d expect that ‘holy ground’ extends to the corresponding airspace.”

Prompto nods, gnawing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Copy.”

Okay.

A hundred feet.

“I’m jumping,” Ignis announces. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you to retrieve me.” He flexes his hand until a dagger appears in his grip. “Feel that?”

Prompto nods. “Yep.”

“Not the Trident. The dagger. You know the difference?”

“If I don’t, then Noct does. Or Gladio.” Prompto swallows.

“Are you okay?” Ignis asks curiously.

Prompto nods, but he’s still paler than Ignis knows him to be. “Just a little woozy,” he says, and he laughs a little bit. “Don’t worry about me, pal. Guess the gods don’t agree with my digestion.”

Ignis hesitates a moment, but then he reaches out and gently pats Prompto on the back. “As soon as I’m out of here, get out of range. Away from the island. Be ready, and be safe. Can you do that for me?”

“I can.” Prompto shakes himself a little bit and renews his grip on the controls of the airship. “Get going, Iggy. I’ve got this.”

Ignis nods, takes a deep breath, and heads out into the main compartment of the airship. He crouches beside Noctis, staring down at the flush of his face and the way his fists clench against an unseen pain.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Gladio asks.

“He should,” Ignis says, and he hopes it’s not a lie. He’s tempted to reach out and hold Noctis’s hand to offer him some sort of comfort. It would be like how they used to do it in the Crown City, back when they were silly children who played fetch with the envoys of the divine and believed that their city was eternal. Back when things were simpler and prophecies were far, far away and Noctis wasn’t king. Back when Ignis was just an Oracle who loved his country and his adopted city, and when he didn’t leave Noctis behind. 

But it’s hard to remember those days.

After a moment of hesitation, he gives in anyway, and he tangles his fingers with Noct’s. On instinct, he focuses on the pain he finds in Noct, and he winces at the light there. The gods did this to him. They don’t want Noctis here. Not yet.

_ One day,  _ he thinks.

He sends his power into Noct’s skin, praying that it will find his way into his lifeblood and towards his heart. His skin prickles with static, and all Ignis can smell is steel, like the armiger has flared to meet him in the collision of his and Noct’s magic.

Noct’s eyes flutter open, glazed with pain and confusion. He squirms on the floor, but he doesn’t do much beyond that. The gods must be holding him tightly, refusing to let him come closer to their most sacred isle. “Ignis,” he murmurs, gaze still unfocused.

“I’ll be back. Just stay out of trouble and away from here.” He squeezes Noct’s hand. “Be safe.”

“Ignis,” Noct whispers again, and he falls silent.

Ignis stares for a moment, still holding Noct’s hand even though it’s not holding his as tightly anymore. His heart gives a curious, unnameable lurch. Even though Noct’s angry, he still recognizes Ignis by magic or by touch or by the sound of his voice.

Somehow, it’s a start.

But now he needs to leave him behind again.

At least Noct’s awake and not dying. It proves Ignis can still make a difference. Even though he’s drained of those fragments of himself he’s traded away, he’s still the Oracle. He still has power.

He can do this.

He squeezes Noct’s fingers a final time and stands, walking to the back of the ship and facing the large doors that usually spill hordes of troopers from their maws. Today, it’s just the Oracle, fulfilling a mission of another sort. Ignis collects himself, takes a breath, and looks at Gladio.

“Do it.”

Gladio gives him a final, mournful look, but he obeys anyway. “Opening the doors.”

The steel doors of the dropship hiss open, sending wind in as soon as a gap forms. The air immediately smells of sea salt and freshness, relieving after so long in the pines and in this sterile, miserable dropship. There’s something else on the air, too, growing stronger the more Ignis focuses on it.

Ozone.

A coming storm.

In the center of the ship, Noct groans.

It’s now or never.

Ignis folds his glasses, tucks them away into a jacket pocket, and jumps.

It’s not quite like how he performs his high jumps. When he leaps to attack, he’s the one in control. He’s calculated everything. He knows when the ground will rise up to meet him.

The gods are in control here.

Here, now, he’s freefalling a hundred feet, plummeting towards sunlit waters. The wind whistles in his ears, screaming at him without words or sense or purpose. Only urgency. Only falling.

Ignis can fall. Anyone can fall.

He almost wishes that his vision was impaired without his glasses. At least then he wouldn’t see the water hurtling close, closer, closer-

“Gods protect me,” he gasps, and then he is crashing.

The dive takes him far, far beneath the surface of the sea, rocketing him away from the sunlight and into the cool churning depths in a heartbeat. Ignis twists beneath the water, struggling to get his bearings. He forces his eyes open, staring into the impassive deep. He looks up towards the filtered sunlight above him, chasing the hail of bubbles he left behind.

The fine fabric of his uniform catches and drags at the water, weighing him down even as he tries to rise above it. Soldiers and princes are not meant to swim, and it seems their clothing is designed to ensure they cannot float either.

Ignis kicks desperately, clawing up towards the surface.

Or - where is the surface?

He twists again, shaking his head to clear it of confusion. Up is where the air is. Up is with the sun.

He tries harder. 

_ Good thing it’s summer, _ he thinks idly. At least if he doesn’t make it, he’ll drown in warm water.

His lung  _ burn. _

He hadn’t taken a deep enough breath before submerging. He’s wasted all his breath on prayers. He drags himself towards the sunlight, chest screaming. He wonders wildly if he should summon a dagger and have the others come down and retrieve his body.

_ Tidemother, save me. _

But Leviathan still sleeps, and he has no breath to sing the song to wake her.

He clutches at his chest when pain stabs through it. He needs air, and badly. 

If he can just get away from the pain, block it out,  _ escape- _

He reaches through the water, summons whatever magic he can grasp, and he steps through the world, hurtling towards sunlight.

It’s nothing like what Noct does, but it doesn’t need to be. One moment he’s struggling for air in the churning sea, and the next he’s breaking the surface, taking in great heaving breaths and spitting seawater from his mouth. The looming darkness of unconsciousness fades to the back of his mind once more, no longer threatening him. The remnants of the Lucian magic crackle through his veins. Despite the warmth of the water around him, Ignis feels the skin on his arms raise into goosebumps.

He treads water, pushing his sodden hair out of his face to look around.

Something looms in the distant sky, hovering in the air out over the continent, past Galdin Quay. It’s their commandeered airship, Ignis hopes, or he’s about to have some unwelcome company.

He needs to get to the island.

He turns from the continent, squinting past the refractions of sunlight into his eyes, staring towards the sacred isle. He’s not too far from it, thankfully, and the shifting sea drags him towards it, thought whether the pull is from natural currents or the will of the gods is anybody’s guess. He lets it tug him towards the black shores of Angelgard, fighting back a wave of nausea. Lucian magic still sparks and hisses in his blood, sending shockwaves through his muscles as his body tries to come to terms with whatever Ignis just did to it.

It’s not pretty.

Even the memory of it is tinted blue with the magic of another family’s ancestors and the filtered glow of sunlight through seawater. Reaching, reaching, and then he’d been briefly  _ not. _

And then he’d been breathing, gasping for air in a place where he had not been a heartbeat ago.

But he hadn’t even held a weapon, so it couldn’t have been a warp.

Ignis swallows down his nausea and heads to the shore. He needs solid ground beneath his feet, and he knows little to nothing about the intricacies of warping. He’ll need to ask Noct when he sees him again to deliver the covenant.

He forces himself to swim the final hundred or so meters to the island despite the ache still in his lungs. The current helps, of course, but Ignis is still dragging his sodden body and heavy clothes to shore. It’s still a struggle to keep his head above water, but he manages it through sheer force of will. 

On the great island of Angelgard, the outside world fades away. As Ignis drags himself onto the rough glassy shore, the cries of gulls disappear almost immediately. With only the crashing waves at his back, Ignis is all too aware of the fact that he is the only mortal to have set food here in a long, long time. Kingdoms have crumbled and burned since the last time an Oracle crossed the sea to commune with the gods. Kings and queens have lived and loved and died, and yet Angelgard remained unchanged, touched only by earth and sea and sky. Divine unto itself.

Exhausted as he is, Ignis can’t help but turn his face towards the sun, knowing that he is the only one who can feel the trueness of its light, unfettered by mortal restraints. The golden light in his heart calls out to the fire in the sky, reaching up to accept some of the sun’s fierce glow. Ignis’s exhaustion fades to naught, and even as he stands to dry himself off, he finds that his uniform has dried completely. 

Ignis says a quiet prayer of thanks. The words echo in his ears, amplified by the silence all around, but he can’t help but feel as if someone is listening. Here, of all places, the voice of the Oracle must be heard. He pulls his glasses from his jacket and pulls them on. No salt streaks across them, and he can see the whole of Angelgard spread out above him. The massive stone wings - or waves, or arms, or something he can’t quite fathom with his mortal mind - arch up into the sky, casting great shadows that plunge the black rock into darkness.

Night and day. Balance.

Static energy sends his skin prickling to life again, threatening a storm on a cloudless day.

Yes, this is the place.

Ignis summons his mother’s trident and begins to climb.

The sun shines down upon him with a merciless constancy, unheeded by clouds or the sweet relief of wind. Everything is perfectly still, holding its breath as the Oracle ascends the island of the astrals. Ignis wipes sweat from his brow and carries on.

He soon finds that he’s not alone. His senses light up in gold once more in the telltale warning of a divine presence, and Ignis looks down to find Umbra trotting at his side. He smiles and carries on walking. “I should have expected to find you here,” Ignis tells him. “This is the Umbral Isle, after all.”

Umbra wags his tail.

“I hope this is what you wanted me to do.”

There’s no response. He should really expect by now that none of his Messenger companions are here for conversation when they guide him to the covenants he must forge. First Pryna, and now Umbra. Not for the first time, he wishes for his friends at his side. It would make this journey a bit more interesting, at least.

He stumbles on the glassy rock, falling to his knees in black rubble. Light against dark, even now. The darkness bringing the light to its knees. Ignis sighs, forces himself up again, and continues onward with Umbra at his side.

“I suppose Gentiana didn’t come with you.” Even now, he’s hesitant to speak her true name aloud. Here of all places, nobody can hear him but the divine hosts, but even so, he uses the name she has adopted. It’s familiar enough to let him ground himself.

Umbra wags his tail once more.

Ignis sighs. “Yes, of course. I suppose this island isn’t quite big enough for the both of them.”

It’s really not. Even now, he approaches the crest of the hill he’s been climbing, emerging into a wide circular space that Ignis can only think of as an arena. His footsteps send terrifying echoes like gunshots all around it, ricocheting off the walls over and over and over. 

Up the hill, at the top of a set of narrow stone steps that carve into the circular arena’s walls, spires of glass twist up from the earth, rising to frame the rough-hewn entrance to a stone building. 

Just like the ancient stories.

The prison. The island. The wrath of the gods keeping darkness at bay.

But there’s no sign of Ramuh.

Ignis looks around, then down at his companion, but Umbra seems content with following him. He sighs.

“Well, Umbra, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go, but this seems as good a place as any.”

He walks to the center of the circle, looks around, and slams the Trident into the ground.

The reverberation is what he needs: the sound of his mother’s song, wordless and ancient and powerful enough to wake the gods. It rings out with the same eternal echo that sent the sound of his approach spiraling in a series of repeats, copying him over and over and over until it died-

But this time, the music only grows louder.

And then the sun goes dark.

Ignis looks up, ears ringing with the song of the stars, and gasps. In a heartbeat, the sky has become blotted out by roiling, furious storm clouds so dark that they’re nearly black. They churn and rumble above him, threatening something Ignis would rather not know.

It starts to rain.

No.

It  _ pours,  _ as it has never poured before, sending sheets instead of drops, relentless and windblown and furious. Ignis stumbles, letting the Trident fade from his grasp, and looks down at his companion.

Did he anger the Fulgurian?

“Umbra, what-”

Umbra darts from his side, running a few feet ahead. He barks a few times and then runs back to Ignis, staring up at him with wide, expressive golden eyes. 

The clouds rumble with the sound of distant thunder.

Umbra barks frantically and grabs his pant leg between his teeth, urging him towards the tiny stone staircase and the hulking mass of stone and glass at the center of the island. Ignis follows, raising his arm to shield himself from the rain and wind and fury of the storm. They approach the stone prison, and Umbra urges him inside.

Ignis has heard stories of this place. He fears it almost as much as he fears this storm.

At least it’ll be dry.

He steps into the prison.

As he crosses the threshold, his hearing goes muted.

It isn’t the same as the way that the island is isolated. The island blocks out the unworthy souls. The prison blocks out everything but the sensation of feeling trapped. Sound doesn’t belong here in the way it belongs to the world outside. Like he doesn’t deserve the blessing of hearing.

What criminal deserves the agony of nothingness?

He sits down on the stone bench he finds, and that seems to please Umbra. The glassy, smooth rock feels as if it’s closing in on him, keeping him 

He sits.

He waits.

The world bursts into a blinding, terrifying white.

And in the midst of the deafening silence, he hears a sound so loud that it could shatter the world.

And then silence, and blackness, and nothing.

Ignis isn’t sure how long it takes for him to regain his sight, or how long he sits in darkness and silence and agony, waiting for his panic to fade. But light - regular light, light that does not burn - comes back to his mind eventually, and he squints to see anything after the intensity of the lightning strike outside. He’s not sure if anything will ever seem bright after what just happened.

Something tugs at his pant leg. Ignis looks down, blinking the light from his eyes, and sees Umbra waiting for him. Ignis reaches down and pets him, thanking him without words and without sound.

Umbra saved his life.

He needs to go out there.

Ears ringing, he stumbles up and over to the stairs, following the vision of Umbra at his feet.

As he crosses the threshold, his hearing comes back to him all at once, sending him reeling with the force of his senses. Now, he is aware of the terrifying, coiling crackling in the air, and of the smell of something burned or fused or forged. He follows the sound and he follows Umbra, heading back down the rain-soaked stone stairs into the ancient arena to the astrals.

In the center of the circle is something new.

Spiraling towards the sky, a column of black sand twists and branches and rises like some incredible snake. Rain steams off of it in a mist, telling of its feral heat. Ignis sees it, and he craves it before he even knows what it is. He knows its power.

And beside the column stands a man.

Ramuh is human-sized, draped in robes of charcoal and gold and silver.

Though he looks like a man, Ramuh does not use the tongue of their kind. The language of the divine pours from his lips with the sonorous music of a hundred hymns.

**_Ignis Nox Fleuret._ **

Ignis bows. “Stormsender. You honor me with your presence.” He raises his eyes to study the god. “Though...you know my name already.”

**_I have kept up with my studies while I slept. I know the names of the Oracles by heart._ **

“You speak so...familiarly.” Ignis ducks his head. “But still with such might. The language of the astrals-”

**_Flattery. It is unnecessary here. Tell me, Lord Fleuret: what is it you seek?_ **

Ignis tells him, “A covenant. Though I will confess that I am not here for a fight.” 

**_I have not the same hunger for strength as my brother. Titan seeks worth in other ways than I._ ** Ramuh walks towards him, heedless of the sharp stones beneath his bare feet. He looks into Ignis’s eyes with eyes as gray as storm clouds.  **_How do you measure yourself?_ **

“I-” He stops. Tries again. “I am the Oracle.”

**_That is your title. How do you measure yourself?_ **

“By-” He stops again, cowed by the eyes of Ramuh. This god sees the heart of him; he knows it. 

**_Look at this,_ ** Ramuh orders, and he gestures to the spiraling column of fused, glossy sand.

“What is it?” he asks. Standing this close to it, and to Ramuh, he can feel the thrum of static along his fingertips. It brings up the memory of his stormbound daggers in his hands.

**_The first runestone. A fulgurite. Rarest of rocks, and the most fragile as well._ ** Ramuh steps around it; when he draws close, the depths of the fulgurite burst with muted lightning strikes.  **_Each one is unique. Each one holds the power of the storm._ **

“The storm,” Ignis breathes. He can feel the power of it in the air, suffocating him with the might of a thousand lightning strikes. He’s tempted. He’s tempted.

But he is afraid.

**_Reach out._ **

Ignis can still taste the ozone in the air; his hair is plastered to his face with the pouring rain. He knows from experience in battle that lightning and water do not get along well. “I can’t-”

**_Have faith._ **

“Faith?” Ignis repeats. “I have faith. I am your Oracle; I have fought in your name!” Fought. Killed. Healed. Suffered. Everything has been for the gods. Everything.

**_Not everything is about fighting, Ignis. Tell this to your king. Bring him to my runestones. Let him test his faith in you._ **

“His faith in me?” Ignis repeats. “Ramuh, I cannot-”

**_You can._ **

Faith.

He can do that.

For Lucis and for the light and for Noct, he can do it.

The worst that can happen is-

He doesn’t think about that.

Faith.

He reaches out to the fulgurite, and he realizes what he has done.

The covenant is a flash this time.

The pain of Ramuh’s touch is there and gone in a heartbeat, cauterizing the wound where his soul was and leaving only the crackling fierceness of ideas and the looming exhaustion of emptiness. Ignis gasps, clutching at his heart, expecting it to stop, but it only stutters faster, excited by the might of the storm that has suffused his bones.

His golden light departs him in its stead, and as Ignis watches, it flies not to the Stormsender, but into the fulgurite itself. It remains there, suffusing the length of the twisted sand, glowing bright gold in veins along the black glass which holds it captive.

Lucian colors, Ignis realizes.

_ Faith. _

Ramuh reaches out to the fulgurite, and at last he touches it as well. At his touch, thunder crashes in Ignis’s heart, stopping and starting it once more. But Ramuh remains strong, and picks it up, and as he does, the fulgurite twists and gleams and grows in his grip. And Ramuh grows as well, lifting the fulgurite from its resting place in the center of this ancient arena, and both he and it rise to the height of buildings, staring down at Ignis.

Ignis recognizes what the fulgurite has become: the staff of Ramuh, fabled and sought after, whispered of at bedtimes in Tenebrae. And now here it is in the hands of a newly awakened god, and Ignis can’t help but feel connected to it. The remaining golden light in his heart calls out to it.

Ramuh turns the staff in his hands, studying it. It shines with lightning that arcs across the outside, but from inside, it lets out a persistent golden glow that fills Ignis with a curious yearning. Ramuh looks down at Ignis with his unfathomable eyes of silver and smoke.

**_It has been a long time since I have wielded this, Ignis. Millennia. Not since the Astral War._ **

And Ramuh almost smiles.

He rises into the air, bearing the staff in his hands.  **_The covenant is forged._ **

Ignis stares up at the massive hulking form of his god, forced nearly to his knees by his awe. 

“The storm,” he whispers.

Ramuh raises his staff, and it glows gold with the power Ignis has given it. A mortal soul in an immortal weapon.

**_Go in peace, Ignis Nox Fleuret. Remember what you have learned._ **

The staff crackles with lightning, sending arcs spiraling down to touch the tops of all the myriad swords piercing the stone of Angelgard. The electricity makes a feral music, sending Ignis’s every sense afire. It’s transcendent, really. He does fall to his knees, laughing breathlessly up at the storm that crashes around him, not caring if his senses will always feel dull and insignificant after witnessing the truth of thunder.

Ramuh points the staff at him, staring at him with eyes full of hope and wisdom and judgment. Lightning crackles at its head, flaring brighter than ever before, but Ignis does not blink. He does not fear the storm.

He watches the bolt in slow motion, knowing that he is experiencing a millennium in the span of a heartbeat. Everything is washed out around him. All that matters is this: the storm, and the lightning, and the thunder in his heart.

And time comes back to life, and the lightning strikes him, and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	11. fociaugh hollow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split up this chapter to get it out faster. Enjoy!

Ignis wakes, and everything is dark.

He shivers, opening his eyes to try to find some source of light, but he finds nothing. The ground around him is damp and cold, and when he shifts, his foot dips into freezing cold water. Ignis whimpers and retracts his foot, trying to get away from the discomfort. There’s no escape. 

He sits up with some effort, fumbling at his chest for the little lantern he keeps clipped there. It stutters to life after some encouragement, casting a white-bright halo against what looks to be a stone wall. Okay. Underground, perhaps. He can work with that. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and turns the light all around him, bracing himself on the ground for support. He’s not quite sure he’d be able to handle standing up right now. The light illuminates nothing but rough walls, still water, and a crevice leading outwards to what must be more of whatever underground hellscape this is.

“Miserable,” he mutters, surprising himself with the rasp in his throat. He raises a hand to his neck, rubbing at the discomfort of which he is suddenly aware. What had he been doing?

He just-

He can’t remember.

Something gleams in the back of his mind, bright and familiar like the presence of a god or Messenger. Comforting. Mysterious.

He turns.

“Oh,” he murmurs, staring up in awe.

A curved, pale structure rises from the stone and water, stretching upwards towards the black ceiling of the cavern. It emanates a faint hum of wordless energy, glowing in some faint fraction of starlight. 

Ignis reaches out to the stone, and his fingers send arcs to connect to it in a line of savage sparks. 

Something in it feels familiar.

His heart yearns for the feral electricity of it once more, and he indulges, marveling at the power contained in this object. But it makes his heart beat far faster than he is used to, and he gasps around the desperate fluttering of it, torn between the rush of the storm and the panic brewing in his head that tells him that this is not meant for him. He decides on sanity for once, though it pains him to do so, and he pulls away from the stone.

The buzzing in his head doesn’t stop.

So maybe he shouldn’t do that again. Ignis draws away from the stone a bit, trying to catch his breath.  _ Focus.  _ There must be something he can do. There must be something he’s missing.

He pulls out his phone and presses the requisite buttons, but it seems it’s out of battery. Either that, or it’s been irreparably damaged by the ocean water. Ignis makes a quiet sound of disgust and banishes the phone to the armory. The bright burst of sparks is welcome enough in the darkness; he misses the blueness of it as soon as it’s gone and considers pulling something from the armory again just to see the magic. 

So GPS is out of the question. 

Where is he?

He squints upwards in search of any type of light other than that from his chest lamp. Out of curiosity, he turns off the lantern and looks around, but only the stone emanates its pale glow. He wishes for some glimpse of starlight or sunlight to let him know that the world still goes on without him, but even that isn’t granted to him.

Already, exhaustion pulls at him again, and he slumps back down beside the stone, curling up on the small bit of dry land he can find. Surely the world will not fall apart if he rests. He’s just so tired.

So he rests, and he drifts to sleep even as his eyes slip shut. His vision goes blissfully, mercifully black, then flashes white, and then he is in Tenebrae.

He is home.

_ “Ignis!” someone calls, but he can’t see them. _

_ It’s not the person’s fault, though, so he can’t blame them. It’s hard for anyone to find him when he’s laying down in the middle of the sylleblossom field, letting the wind send the flowers swaying into his vision. It’s nice out here with the sky high above him and the spires of Fenestala Manor in the distance. Out here, nobody reminds him that his mother is magical and that one day he will be too. Out here, the Messengers don’t bother following him. _

_ Apparently Ravus does. _

_ “Ignis!” his brother calls again, and his footsteps draw closer, carefully forging a path through the sylleblossoms. “Ignis, come now. I thought we’d outgrown this behavior.” _

_ Ignis sits up, pushing his glasses up his nose to squint at Ravus. “What?” _

_ “Lunafreya is looking for you. She’s with Prince Noctis.” _

_ Oh. The prince. Ignis shrugs and looks down at his hands, picking at the leaves of a sylleblossom that had wilted among its brothers and sisters. “I don’t want to see him.” He wants to be with his flowers and his books, not with a prince he barely knows. _

_ “He’s closest to you in age, little brother. You should get along.” _

_ Ignis scowls. “Why should I? Luna seems to like him enough. She can talk to him.” _

_ “Ignis. That is unbecoming of the Oracle.” _

_ “I’m not the stupid Oracle.” _

_ Ravus steps closer, still with his hands behind his back. Unthreatening as always. “You will be one day, little brother. And when you are, Prince Noctis will be your king.” He puts his hands on Ignis’s shoulders, bending to meet his gaze. His eyes are the pale silver-blue of their family, warm and familiar. “One day, Ignis. Perhaps sooner than you might expect. So we must always be ready.” _

_ Soon soon soon- _

He wakes.

He looks down at his hands, frowning when he finds that they are bigger than he remembers. When did he start wearing gloves?

_ Oracle,  _ Ravus murmurs in his mind, still sixteen and unharmed by the empire that destroyed them.  _ Oracle. _

“Stop,” Ignis orders aloud, clutching at his head. It aches and buzzes with far more thoughts than he can fathom. He blinks to attempt to banish the exhaustion from his eyes, but they remain clouded, obscured by the lingering afterimages of some bright light, as if he’s been staring at the sun for too long.

Or as if-

He flinches in the dark.

As if he’s been struck by lightning.

It all comes back to him in flashes, sending waves of light and color and sound into his too-tired mind. Ignis falls to his knees on cold stone, holding his head in his hands. It barely helps. He doesn’t know why he thought it would. The images are jumbled and full of jagged edges, barely giving him the full picture.

The airship. The island. Watching the sunlight from deep below the sea. Noct curled on the ground, brought low by the wrath of the gods. The taste of salt in his mouth. Ozone and petrichor.

Then the song. The Trident. Storm clouds and unnatural silence and then  _ sound. _

The revelation of the Stormsender. The covenant.

And the lightning.

Ramuh must have sent him here, or else Ignis managed to wander in here all by himself. He doubts that that’s the case. This place must be the home of a runestone. 

Ignis turns and reaches out for the strange pale stone once more, and his fingers connect to it in a line of blue sparks. The air hisses when the water on his fingers vaporizes in the face of the power of the runestone. He’s meant to protect this: he knows this for a fact, embedded in his heart alongside the covenant delivered to him by the Fulgurian. This is his calling. 

He needs Noct to find this runestone. He needs Noct to find him.

Maybe he can get out and find him.

Though some part of him is loathe to leave the runestone behind, he makes his way down the narrow pathway away from it regardless. It twists, forcing him to duck and turn in order to make it through the passage, but it eventually lets him out in a chamber far larger than the one he’s left behind.

He stares up at the cliffs of this internal cavern, idly pulling his spear from the armiger while he contemplates his next move. The Trident would be too much of a risk, of course, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle the exhaustion that comes with its use. He does miss it, though, and he thinks he might appreciate the comfort of its music in a place like this.

It’s not safe to leap, so he resigns himself to the unpleasant task of finding his way up the old fashioned way.

There are a few pitfalls he almost stumbles upon, but overall it’s an easy trek upwards through the winding tunnels. Ignis hates to admit the fact that he’s wheezing by the time he reaches the supposed top; something in the way his heart pounds with the frantic speed of divine urgency is keeping him from drawing a full breath in. He doubts he’d be able to keep his restless muscles still enough to breathe in completely anyway.

The tunnel widens into a chamber with a low ceiling. Cautiously, Ignis makes his way inside, hesitant about being out in the open without any sign of what could lie ahead. He edges along the walls of the cave, a single dagger at the ready. Wind blows lightly against his face. He stops.

Gods, he can feel himself practically vibrating in place.

But the wind is a welcome reassurance. This must be the way. The cave must open. There’s no sign of any daemons rising out of the darkness to greet him, so he dashes across the chamber towards the far end, coming up to a narrow outlet.

The way is blocked.

Massive boulders sit stacked up against each other in what was clearly supposed to be the cave entrance at some point. Ignis makes his way up to the blockage and tries to peer through to find any chance of levering them apart. He can see the barest sliver of sunlight through the cracks between some of the boulders, but no more than that. He can’t even gain any sort of understanding of where he could possibly be. There’s nothing here for him but empty hopes of escaping.

“Damn it!” he yells, and he pounds his fist against the unyielding stone. Would that he still had the blessing of Titan; he’d probably be able to shift some of this miserable rock. But all he has is ice and lightning, and frost has never moved mountains. He’s stuck in here.

Still, he savors the breaths of fresh air he can muster from the hair-thin cracks between the stones. He inhales, trying to immortalize the scent of petrichor and freshness before he descends back into the darkness. He’d stay here for the rest of his life if he could, clawing his way towards sunlight.

He’s been away from the runestone for too long, though. If there’s no way for him to escape, then his only hope is to wait for someone to come find him.

_ Noct. _

Yes. Yes, he hopes so.

Ignis picks his way back down through the cave, dodging falling drops of water and stepping around rock formations towards his destination. It doesn’t matter if he gets lost; the sparking covenant in his heart urges him back towards its partner, and he finds himself before the pale, twisting structure once more before long. It still gleams eerily, occasionally crackling with a few stray bolts that arc along its length. Ignis stares at it, drawn and repulsed all at once, and sighs.

He sits back against the runestone, leaning his head against the spiky bulk of it. He doesn’t quite mind the way the lightning crackles out to greet him. He stares up at the little sliver of light that peeks through from the world above. It’s not enough sunlight to warm him up in any significant way, but he likes to fool himself into thinking it does. He’s half in the water surrounding the stone, anyway, soaked to the bone and miserable beyond belief. Alone.

But to his surprise, he finds something else has found a home down here with him. In this miserable cold water, life has bloomed. Leafy plants spread their dark arms out around him, desperate for any bit of light that makes its way down into the cavern of the gods. Ignis reaches out to inspect one of the plants, studying the dark veins that make their way along the broad stretch of its leaves. The texture of it is waxier than he’d expected, though he supposes that comes with being surrounded by water. One of life’s little miracles, here in the endless darkness.

“No Scourge in you,” he murmurs, turning the leaf over between his fingers. “None at all. Would that I could be as carefree as you.” He feels his way down to the stem of the leaf, briefly contemplating tearing it away so that he might have something to fidget with when he steps away from the light. But this plant has given so much of its energy that it may grow here, and Ignis does not wish to harm it. Life such as this is precious.

It’s not a perfect replacement for his fields of sylleblossoms back home, but it’s close enough.

Something in his head  _ shifts,  _ and he winces, and he is young again.

_ He’d decided to follow Ravus back to the manor after all. _

_ Ravus had scolded him for the grass stains on his fine gray slacks, but Ignis had just run to his room to change them and send the soiled ones off to be cleaned. He wears black pants instead, since he figures maybe that’s the polite sort of thing to do when meeting with a foreign prince. Black’s really not his favorite, but at least he’s wearing sylleblossom blue as well. Mother said he looked dashing in it. _

_ Luna’s not here with them right now; Ignis thinks that’s probably because of Ravus. So it’s just Ignis in here. He sits back in the armchair that’s far too big for him, trying to look like a proper prince and Oracle. He thinks he’s doing a good job. _

_ And here’s Prince Noctis in his wheelchair, squirming around with Umbra in his arms, failing to escape Umbra’s insistent attempts to lick his face. _

_ Noctis laughs, turning his head to try to get away. “Umbra!” he giggles, digging his fingers into the Messenger’s thick fur. “Umbra, stop!” _

_ His laugh is pleasant, actually.  _

_ “Umbra,” Ignis warns, smiling, and Umbra pulls away, but not before licking Noctis’s cheek. He jumps from Noctis’s lap and trots up to Ignis, blinking up at him before he jumps into the chair to squeeze in beside him, tucking himself beneath Ignis’s arm. Ignis scratches beneath his chin before looking back to Noctis. “He likes you.” _

_ “I like him,” the little prince says happily. _

_ “Umbra’s a very good judge of character.” And it’s true. As Ignis continues petting Umbra, he takes another look at the young prince of Lucis. Noctis is still small and shaggy-haired, dressed in the black clothes of his house. In the wheelchair, he looks even smaller, though he’d tried to walk once the other day with Ignis’s mother at his side. Ignis does admire his perseverance in that regard. _

_ This prince isn’t so bad after all. _

_ Luna walks into the room with Pryna at her side. They make a fine pair: Messenger and mistress, bound by the divine might hidden in their bodies. Even at twelve, Luna is bold enough to tussle with Pryna in the courtyards. Mother lets them, of course; she thinks it’s good for a princess of Tenebrae to be so connected to the might of the Twenty Four.  _

_ She doesn’t let Ignis do anything like that. She says it’s not befitting of the Oracle. _

_ Ignis sees the scabs in Luna’s knees and scowls. “Hello, Luna.” _

_ “Luna!” Noctis chirps with a wide smile. He can’t pronounce Lunafreya’s full name yet. Then his grin widens, and he exclaims, “Ravus!” _

_ Ah, so both of them are at the door. Ignis resumes petting Umbra, watching the two of them - or three, if he counts Pryna, and he does - out of the corner of his eye. They’re friendlier and older than him; Ignis wishes desperately to go back to his book about the stars. _

_ Maybe Noctis would like to see the book as well. _

The vision forces Ignis back into his body just as quickly as it had ripped him away. Ignis comes back to himself with a gasp, looking down to realize that he’s still kneeling in the murky water of the cavern, holding the leaf of one of the impossible plants.

It couldn’t have been more than a second.

Just a flash.

He groans, holding his head between his hands, but his mind does not obey him, and he is home once more, picking up where he left off.

_ “She came to see you,” Ravus tells him from the doorway, and he steps aside to let someone sweep inside, wearing robes of blue and gold. _

_ “Mother!” Ignis cries happily, and he turns to look at her, smiling up towards- _

_ Towards- _

_ Her face. _

_ He can’t remember- _

He wakes.

There’s the yearning again, worse this time, and it feels more like grief than anything else, magnified and echoing in his half-empty chest with a mournful thunder.

He backs up against the runestone, feeling electricity hum through his bones in response. Its comfort feels empty. It can’t offer him what he’s lost; it only reminds him of what has been forced upon him.

Which covenant took the part of him that remembers his mother?

He raises his knees up towards his chest, hugging them close for some fragment of warmth. The water splashes up against his ankles, only making him shiver harder and clutch more tightly at his knees. He yearns for home, and for his friends, and for the easy laughter he’d always felt when around those he loves.

Someone will come for him. They will.

Faith. He needs to have faith.

But he’s so tired.

Sleep takes him despite his best wishes, dragging him down into the depths of his exhaustion. His vision fades to black before flashing lightning-white with the promise of another fever dream. He dreads it; he welcomes it.

But this dream isn’t like the rest.

_ He stands in his field of shifting blue below the open sky and the towers of Fenestala Manor, alone in the lonely wilderness of his homeland. When he looks down, he wears white fatigues and golden gloves. He is not young. _

_ This is not a memory. _

_ There’s someone here with him. She stands in the field when he turns to face her, wearing robes of gossamer white. A young woman of not much older than twenty, she has the brightest blue eyes Ignis has ever seen, full of sunlight in the way that Noct’s are full of stars. She is beautiful. _

_ Ignis does not know her. _

_ “Ignis,” she calls. “Ignis, can you hear me?” _

_ “I don’t know,” he mumbles, stepping backwards. These fields are unfamiliar now, separated from him by a decade and by flames. “I’m sorry, I don’t-” _

_ The woman calls again, “Ignis.” Softer now. Tenderly. Like she knows him, and she loves him, and she is welcoming him home. _

_ He should know her. He does know her.  _

_ He recognizes the steel in her eyes. _

_ “Lunafreya!” he cries, reaching out to her, clawing through fields of sylleblossoms. The smell is cloying, suffocating him with their sickly sweetness. “Luna!” _

_ He blinks, and the scene changes. _

_ She stands with Noct beside her, both in perfect contrast to each other. External light and internal fire. Noct watches him silently with eyes made of starlight, regal and dark and dangerous. Lunafreya extends her hand, opening her curled fingers, and Ignis can see the Ring of the Lucii in her palm. _

_ “I’m afraid, Ignis,” she tells him mournfully. “I know not what will come to pass.” _

_ She passes the Ring to Noct, but their hands turn to smoke and blood and ashes when they touch. The smoke travels up their arms, consuming them in phantom flames.  _

_ “No!” Ignis cries. Not Luna. Not Noct. _

_ And everything is darkness around them, and Fenestala Manor burns on crags of brimstone high above them. Noct reaches out to him, eyes widening before they too are consumed, and he crumbles before Ignis can reach him. _

_ The Ring falls into the field of burning flowers, disappearing among the ashes. Ignis can’t reach it anymore, but he dives into the flames anyway, searching for any fragment of those who have gone before him. The ground falls away beneath him, turning to blue smoke as the sylleblossoms crumble around him. _

_ And he’s falling into the emptiness, recognizing his own heart in the void there- _

_ He falls. _

He tears himself out of the vision this time, stomach lurching as if it’s still plummeting to the earth. His hands tremble, and he clenches them into fists, desperate to regain some sort of control. His mind won’t let him  _ think,  _ and his body enables it, keeping him captive while the covenant forces him towards sickening clarity.

“Sister,” he breathes. “Luna.”

The buzzing in his head is getting worse. These visions are getting more vivid; somehow Luna or something masquerading as her managed to reach him from across the stars, bound to him by divine will. It scares Ignis more than he cares to admit.

Oracles aren’t meant to hold the power of the gods in their bodies for too long. 

Gentiana’s pact is an exception, of course. He’s known Shiva’s blessing for long enough that her ice is a part of him, growing and spreading as he grew into himself in Insomnia. Ramuh’s covenant does not work in the same way; instead, it thrums through his veins, unable to integrate itself into the rigid structure of Ignis’s being. He needs to get it out, and soon. He knows the solution.

Some part of his heart calls out for Noct.

It must be because of the covenants of Shiva and Ramuh. The gods know the truth of it, after all. The gods put him here. Only Noct can get him out.

It’s all about faith.

He drags himself to his feet, stumbling away from the runestone. His muscles are stiff, as if they’re constantly flexing and twitching, compelled to take action by the magic of the Fulgurian. Ignis needs to get away from the nexus of its power. Or maybe he’s the nexus, and the runestone only amplifies the effect. Nonetheless, his head spins with the effects of the electricity, though the feeling lessens with every step he takes away from the tiny watery chamber of the runestone.

He emerges into the echoing depths of the main cavern. A faint wind blows at his hair and he dares to hope that maybe the entrance to the cave has been opened at last. It smells of rain and wilderness, and he breathes it in, desperate for something that isn’t mold and rot. The relief is temporary at best.

Something chatters, catching his attention. Ignis’s head twitches in that direction, alert before he even understands what’s happening.

Small figures scamper across his path, twisted and hunched and sharp-toothed. Ignis recognizes them by sight before he even contemplates the heavy darkness weighing on the back of his mind. The chill approaches nonetheless, confirming the truth his eyes have seen.

Daemons.

He raises his hand on instinct, driven by that old feral uge to  _ heal- _

But there’s no time for that. This is no place for experimentation.

They cannot take this runestone.

Ignis must live to pass on the covenant of Ramuh to Noctis.

_ Noct- _

He looks down and realizes his blades are already drawn, showering the ground with white sparks. He flips them a few times, settling on a reverse grip. Lightning crackles along his skin, traveling down to the blades and arcing across the lengths of steel. Ignis holds them up in a cross before his chest, falling into a battle stance. This is just like training. Analyze the room. Determine the enemy count. Minimize the losses.

He can’t afford to get caught in the middle of them. He needs to be quick.

For a moment, Ignis almost hesitates.

But then a daemon throws a rock at him, catching him on the nose with enough force to open a small wound there. His blood roars in his ears, forced by his infinite heartbeat and stirred up into a fury. Ramuh may not be the astral of war, but his covenant makes Ignis angry and desperate and smart. It makes him calculating. It makes him dangerous.

“Fine.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, baring his teeth in a snarl. “You leave me no choice.”

It’s too low in this place to do a proper high jump, so he settles for a single low sweep with his lance, trying to get these daemons out of their clustered formation. He winces when the lance’s pointed end crunches through the first body, but regret doesn’t tug at him this time. This is just like training. Seek and destroy. Defend the king. The gods have placed their faith in him, and he must not let them down. He is the Oracle. He is their weapon.

The daemons chatter a wordless challenge, and Ignis leaps.

It’s better than training, he decides.

This is what he’s been craving: the rush of the wind in his ears, the restless energy being converted to sheer force, and the sound of his opponents falling before him. The stormbound daggers - never his favorite, but today he doesn’t think he’d trade them for anything - carry him from enemy to enemy. He doesn’t always kill them on the first strike, but he manages to get back to them eventually. There’s no order in this, and no strategy, and for once Ignis doesn’t mind the random energy of this dance. 

He speeds headlong into a goblin’s face one time, hitting it just as his dagger slashes across its throat. The daemon screams, high and desperate and pained, spattering inky lifeblood that pulses with something red and dangerous. Some of it gets in Ignis’s mouth. He coughs, spitting black smoke from his mouth, and then he is gone again, faster than light, digging his daggers into an enemy only to let the lightning carry him away again. The cavern lights up in near-white burts, illuminating the glowing, poisonous eyes of the daemons. 

One manages to slash at his leg and he snarls, staggering out of rhythm, and as he slashes out his vision flashes white-

_ “The boy seeks to befriend the prince?” Gentiana asks. _

_ Ignis nods. “I think so. I like him.” _

His slash connects with the neck of the daemon, digging into Ignis never once breaks his rhythm, forcing his way past the intrusion of the visions. One daemon to the next, taking the flashes in stride as he uses the enhanced magic of Ramuh to speed through the endless darkness and take down those that threaten harm to him and to his king.

They get too close at one point. They’re smarter than Ignis anticipates, and they’re ready for him when he flashes in from across the cavern, surrounding him and chattering loudly with triumph. One slaps at him and comes away with an ether, tipping it back and downing it with a watery cackle. 

Ignis swears under his breath and crashes his blades together; when steel hits steel, frost bursts along the daggers. Now wielding the element most familiar to him, he whirls in a circle, conjuring up the blizzard bound to his weapons. It sends the goblins staggering back, clutching at their chests where slash wounds have frosted over and obscured their black tar blood with ice. He almost feels bad for them when they collapse at his feet, dissolving into smoke and dust with high, reedy screams.

But they’re daemons. They are trying to attack Ignis and all that he holds dear. They deserve this death.

_ “The prince is the Chosen.” _

_ “What does that mean?” Ignis asks, wide-eyed and awestruck by the High Messenger herself. She talks to him a lot more now that Prince Noctis is here in Tenebrae. _

_ Gentiana opens her eyes, and for the first time Ignis meets the gaze of an astral. “He must give all for our star.” _

“No!” he cries aloud, because he  _ should  _ have done that when she’d told him, he should have should have should have-

This runestone cannot fall. Ignis cannot fall. Noctis cannot-

He falters again, staggering to a stop in the center of the cavern. He’s not sure where all the daemons went; they can’t possibly be gone.

But up above-

Yes.

Others.

He stumbles forward, half-warping forward in a crackle of electricity. There’s still so much more to do. He must not let this runestone fall. He cannot-

“What the hell is it?”

“Another arachne? I dunno; don’t they usually use lightning?”

Ignis braces himself and stares up at the ledge of the level above his, closer to the sealed entrance of the cave system. Three figures stand there, silhouetted across the cavern in bright light. Humanoid. Reapers, maybe. He can’t be sure. There’s no time for him to ask questions. This runestone-

“Stay back,” he warns, flipping the dagger in his hand. The electricity crackles across it, setting the air to life with static. 

The lead figure stops dead in its tracks. Good. It should stay back. “Holy shit- Wait! Wait! I got this!”

Ignis twitches again. Does he know that voice? Should he?

He wants a fight. Needs it. His heart is going too quickly for him to do anything but fly and strike and slash. He can’t cease the endless roar of his pulse in his ears; can’t control the urge to fight.

And it’s  _ fun. _

Something flashes in his periphery, and for once it’s not lightning. But he can’t trust it. It’s another trick by the daemons to throw him off his guard and get close to the runestone. He twitches, flipping his daggers in his hands. Between heartbeats, his vision pulses with white-bright images of a home long gone.

“Ignis! Ignis, hey, hold on!”

Ignis whips around with his daggers already sparking, baring his teeth to his attacker. Whoever is here dares approach the runestone of gods and kings. Whoever is here deserves to die.

“Ignis!”

_ Wait- _

Noctis, rain-soaked and wide-eyed and  _ beautiful. _

Yes, that’s the word. 

The clarity of it comes to him in another flash, faster than light and faster than thought. It’s Noctis, his king, and he’s come for Ignis at last. Ignis didn’t realize he could look so radiant in the midst of all this darkness.

“Noct,” he breathes, and the spelldaggers hiss with power. He drops them at his sides, letting them clatter into oblivion with an echoing, painful music.

“Ignis,” Noct says calmly, staring at him with wide blue eyes full of starlight and meteorshards. “Hey. Specs. Wanna come back to us?”

Ignis stares. “But you’re right here.”

“Are you?”

“Well-”

He’s not sure.

Tries again.

“Well, I’m with you, Noct.”

Yes, that makes sense. This makes sense.

_ “Ignis!” Noct screams as Tenebrae burns around them. _

“The covenant,” Ignis murmurs. “We need to go to the runestones.”

“Ignis, I already went to them. We’ve been looking for you.” Noct holds him by the wrist. “Hey. Ignis. Look at me.”

He thought he was. He blinks again. “Then this is the last.”

He shifts so that he takes Noct’s hand, and his vision goes white once more.

_ “I won’t let you down!” Noctis chirps, and his eyes are bright with joy. _

_ Ignis smiles. “I know you won’t.” _

“Come along, Noct,” he grits out, and he conjures a single stormbound dagger, desperate for the feeling of a warp. With Noct beside him, it almost seems possible. They need to go. They need to go now if it means that Ignis can just let this impossible energy out of his body. Oracles are not meant to hold the gifts of the gods. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, and he whines against his will, but when he opens his eyes again -  _ when did I close them -  _ he is standing before the runestone with Noct at his side.

“Will it hurt you?” Noct asks, and maybe his voice trembles.

“It might.” It certainly feels like it. He can’t imagine a life without this ceaseless speed of living.

“Then I can’t.”

Ignis wraps a hand around the back of Noctis’s neck, holding on for dear life. “You must, Noct. It’s about faith.” He presses his forehead to Noct’s, leaning against him for any sort of support. He can’t control this anymore; can’t control his body or his mind or his heart. “Have faith in me. Please.”

Noct pulls back just a bit, blinking up at him with night sky eyes. Gods, Ignis has missed seeing the stars. 

“Take my hand,” he pants, and he holds one out to Noct. He tries not to think about how much it’s shaking. “Please, Noct.”

After a moment - or an eternity, but he can’t tell when his mind flashes with images of a childhood he’s lost - of hesitation, Noct twines his fingers with Ignis’s. Maybe Ignis imagines it, or his failing body is forcing him to feel through phantom synapses, but he thinks he can feel Noct squeeze his hand, just once. A reminder that he’s there. An anchor.

Just like before.

“It’ll be okay,” Ignis promises breathlessly. “Noct, I promise.”

Noct touches the runestone, and the air explodes with the sound of thunder.

The world flares bright, impossible white.

Ignis screams and falls to his knees, shuddering when the electricity rips its way through his body, amplified a million times over by the rippling water around him. The covenant is so much more painful on its way out of his flesh, turning his veins into conduits in an agonizing divine circuit.

The emptiness is almost worse than the pain of the covenant fleeing from his body. He shivers, sinking lower in the frigid water, holding on desperately to Noctis’s hand to remind himself that he is here and living and not falling through storm clouds.

But he just feels so  _ lost. _

Ignis finds himself pressing his forehead against Noct’s thigh, leaning into him with his full weight. He doesn’t know if he’s capable of holding himself up right now. Another full-body shudder, and he gasps, “I-”

“Specs. Come back to me, yeah?”

“I don’t-” Ignis stops and stares up at Noctis, feeling the sharp sting of saltwater in his eyes.  “I don’t know how.”

Noct’s hand finds his cheek. Ignis turns his head, desperate for some sort of touch that doesn’t sting, breathing in the scent of steel and leather and sunlight. Noct speaks to him, more urgently this time. “Ignis. Come back to me.”

“I can’t,” he says again, and his heart lurches, thrown into limbo without the electric charge of the storm to keep it racing. “Noct, I can’t.” Without the clarity of the covenant, he can’t muster anything more than the thought of  _ Noct Noct Noct- _

“Look at me.”

It seems he has not forgotten how to obey, because Ignis raises his eyes to meet Noct’s in a heartbeat, staring up into the face of his king. Waiting.

Noctis stares back.

His eyes are red.

Ignis misses the blue.

“Sleep,” Noctis orders gently, and Ignis loses focus immediately, falling backwards into the void. Gods, he feels so empty.

And then it’s finally, finally dark enough for him to rest.

He welcomes the darkness this time, and the silence as well, and he sleeps without dreams for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	12. aracheole stronghold.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lucians retake what is theirs.

For the first time in a while, he wakes slowly.

Without the covenant, his head is silent. It rings with the sound of nothingness, curiously empty after the raging storm. Ignis lays there for however long he can bear, just breathing and listening to the peacefulness of ambient noise. With his eyes closed, he enjoys the darkness of whatever world he’s woken up into. The faint sound of chocobo calls filters into his awareness. He smiles.

Wiz Chocobo Post. Of course.

Would that it were home.

This will have to be enough for now. He has the others with him, surely, and the Messengers and the Six at his back. Where they are is home enough.

He flexes his fingers at his sides, testing their steadiness. No shaking. Good. And no gloves, either - someone must have taken them off for him. He silently thanks whoever it was for allowing him that courtesy. Carefully, he extends his reach, stretching across the soft sheets all around him in search of companions.

Pryna isn’t at his side, and neither is Umbra. Ignis figures it’s a foregone conclusion that Gentiana won’t be there either. He tries not to let his mood sour because of it, but his relief sinks down into the deep, unnerving emptiness anyway. It only highlights the magnitude of the loneliness. He lets a soft sigh escape despite himself.

“You’re awake.”

It’s a welcome end to the silence. Ignis basks in the gentleness of a human voice after so long spent with thunder. It’s warm and soothing as his own magic, calling him back to a time before the world began to fall apart all over again.

“Gladio,” he murmurs before he can bother to open his eyes.

“You got it. How’re you holding up?”

Ignis frowns. “I’ve been better.” He pauses, thinking about it, and decides that anything further than that might be a lie. He’s told enough lies for now. “Noct?” he murmurs instead, reaching out to where he expects the prince to be. There’s nothing beside him but the empty sheets and mattress, leaving him alone. It’s disconcerting. Shouldn’t Noct be there?

“He’s outside. I can get him.”

Ignis raises a hand to stop him, opening his eyes at last. “In a moment.” Would Noct even be awake at this time? There’s hardly any daylight to speak of. “What time is it?” he asks groggily.

Gladio’s lips set into a thin line. “Eight.”

“At night?” Perhaps that’s why he still feels so drained.

“In the morning.”

Ignis props himself up on his elbows, squinting at Gladio. He’s not quite sure where his glasses are. “Well, that’s not quite right.”

“Yeah, but it’s what we have.”

“But why?”

“I dunno. Ask the gods if it’ll make you feel better.”

“The sun would make me feel better.”

“You’re out of luck for that one.” Gladio stands and goes to the window, pushing the little curtain aside to peer out at the world. “As least for a little while longer.”

Ignis balances on one arm so that he can rub at the bridge of his nose. “Gladio, I don’t like this. The sun is the sun. It doesn’t just change.”

Gladio looks over his shoulder at Ignis, eyes glinting dull amber in the soft light of the camper. “Apparently it does. It’s done this every day since you jumped to the island. We thought it was just the storm, but now that the clouds are gone, obviously it isn’t just that.”

“I should have asked him about that,” Ignis mutters.

“Ramuh?”

“Yes. He would have known.” Though he’s not sure if he would have told Ignis anything. He’s not sure of anything the gods do these days. “How long was I asleep this time?”

“Three days.”

 _Gods._ “Three days?”

“You woke up a couple times in between, mumbling things, but this is the first time you’ve been coherent. Hell, half of the first day was just us trying to get your heart back into rhythm.” Gladio ducks his head a bit, casting his face into shadow. “We didn’t know if you were going to make it for a while, y’know.”

Ignis stares down at his hands. “I...I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, really. What matters is that you’re awake.”

“And the ship?”

“We crashed it into the water. Kind of accidentally, kind of on purpose. With you gone, the troopers got antsy.”

Ignis puts his face in his hands, thankful that he’s not wearing his glasses. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Plans change. It was touch and go for a while.”

“But everyone’s safe? Nobody was harmed?”

Gladio nods. “Prompto took a tumble in the cockpit when he tried to crash it and the troopers were trying to take the ship, but he had a quick potion and that was the end of it.”

“That’s...good, I suppose.”

“Prompto’s doing recon for us now. He managed to get a lot of data from the ship before we left; he thinks it might help us get the Regalia back.”

“Just walking, or talking to the locals?”

“He’s got chocobos. He’s been going on a few expeditions to check out the area, but we wanted to wait until you woke up to do anything concrete.” Gladio folds his arms; something like sunlight gleams in his eyes. Perhaps the sun is rising at last. “You sure you’re good? You were out of it when we found you. Kept twitching.”

Ignis shrugs. “Lightning. It doesn’t agree with me.”

That doesn’t seem to reassure Gladio. Ignis hadn’t expected it to. “Right.”

The tone really isn’t what he needs right now. Ignis readjusts himself in the bed, trying to get in a position from which he can better glare at Gladio. “I knew that this would happen when I came along. Can you imagine how much worse it would have been if I’d only had the Marshal?” Gods, he can’t believe that he’d nearly gone with him all that time ago. It feels like it’s been an eternity since then.

“I’m glad you’re with us.”

“So am I.” Ignis wishes for the safety of his gloves. “Gladio, after you send Noct in, fetch Prompto, please. The three of us need to plan how we’re going to retrieve the Regalia.”

Gladio nods. His eyes flash amber again, catching the new sunlight, and something like uncertainty gleams there. “Should I go now?”

Ignis isn’t sure how he’s ever quite going to thank Gladio for everything he’s done. Being saddled with the duty of caring for not one, but two princes is no small feat, especially not with them being in their early twenties and on the run from an empire that wants their heads. Ignis fears he makes it a lot worse by running off all the time and getting into trouble with the gods and empire. He was never meant to be Gladio’s responsibility. He has Prompto, of course, and Prompto’s taken to his role as Ignis’s de facto protector, but Gladio still watches over all three of them.

It’s hard for sure. Ignis isn’t sure how Gladio manages it all. He’s just lost his homeland, his family, and all security and support, but somehow he’s still holding it together.

Ignis appreciates it. He does.

“I’m not here to order you around, Gladio; I’m sorry if I came off that way.” Ignis offers him a small smile. “Thank you. Really. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me, Gladio.”

It’s been a long time since he’s seen real happiness in Gladio’s face, but he thinks he might see a bit of it right now. Gladio says, “Thanks, Iggy. I’m just happy you decided to stick around.”

“So am I.”

Gladio nods, pats the headboard beside Ignis, and makes his way out of the bedroom. “I’ll get Noct.”

“Thank you.”

Quiet voices sound just outside: Gladio’s, of course, and Noct’s as well. Ignis would recognize the sound of them anywhere. Gladio’s still inside the caravan, then, which means Noct’s been in there the whole time too. That fact alone gives him a little sense of satisfaction, and he sits back against the pillows, trying to compose his thoughts a little more. What needs to be said? What does he need to apologize for this time?

A few moments pass of silence, but then quiet footsteps approach the bedroom, and Noct steps through the door.

The last time Ignis had seen him, he’d been soaked by rain and illuminated by flashlights and divine light. The last time Ignis had seen him, his eyes had been gleaming red, proof of the power of Ramuh finding its proper home in his body. Now, it’s just Noctis with dark circles beneath his eyes to suggest a restless night. Blue eyes. The color is reassuring just to see.

“Ignis,” he says, and that’s all it takes to make Ignis smile.

“Noctis. It’s good to see you.”

“You’re awake.”

Ignis nods. “It seems so.”

Noct nods. “Hope you don’t mind that we undressed you.” He picks at his gauntlet, and his eyes flicker away from Ignis and back again. “Yeah, uh. Your clothes were filthy and soaking wet, so.”

Ignis looks down at himself in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed that he’s wearing nothing more than his underwear, lying in bed with the sheets pooled around his waist. It’s awfully impractical when they’re in the middle of a war. People could attack at any time. “Of course.” Ignis adjusts the sheets, pulling them higher along his hips. There’s not much to be done to cover his chest, though. Oh, well. They’ve all camped together enough for there not to be much of a problem of modesty. “Thank you, Noct.”

Noct’s cheeks almost look red in this lighting, though maybe that’s just the rising sun. “Yeah, well, it was Gladio’s idea.”

“He’s known for his good ideas, you know.” Ignis allows himself a moment to smile and breathe, then points out, “You look exhausted.”

“We switched out sitting with you while we waited for you to wake up. I usually take the night shifts.”

“But when do you sleep?”

Noct shrugs. “When I can. It’s hard to when you’re just waiting around.”

“Did you recover?” asks Ignis, remembering all at once the commotion above Angelgard. “You know...from what happened above the island?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Noct narrows his eyes a little bit. “Should be asking you the same thing.”

“I’m fine,” Ignis promises. “Though, Gladio told me that I was...saying things. Did I ever wake up and speak to you?”

“Just words, really.”

“Such as?”

“Fire. Darkness. Your siblings’ names.” He shrugs. “My name, a couple of times.”

“Ah. Some of those ring a bell.” Too familiar; his mind flashes with the image of himself on his knees, begging for the mercy of a king he’s known since childhood. “Though I do not remember saying them.”

“You’ve been out of it for days.” He pauses, then admits, “It’s good to hear you speaking for real again.”

Ignis smiles. “I...thank you, Noct.”

There’s a pause, and then Noct says, “Specs...I’m sorry that I just told you around like that, back in the cave.” Noct picks at the bedsheets, not meeting his eyes. “You weren’t _there,_ I don’t think, and just ordering you around-”

“Noct,” Ignis interrupts quietly.

Noct chances a brief look up at him before dropping his gaze again.

Ignis takes that as an acknowledgement and continues, “Noct, from what I remember, you did nothing wrong. Only your duty as king, and that which I asked you to do for me.” Ignis had been the one out of line. He remembers it in bits and pieces: clinging to Noct, leaning into him with all his might; delivering the covenant of Ramuh desperately, wildly, painfully. His throat gives a painful twinge just to remind him of how much he’s been screaming.

It’s unbecoming of an Oracle. It’s improper conduct for a Crownsguard, an embarrassment for a prince, and above all a failure as a friend.

He bows his head. “I am the one who should be apologizing. I crossed boundaries I shouldn’t have.” All this after Noctis had asked for space. Does Ignis have no shame?

Noctis doesn’t reply.

Desperately, Ignis continues, “You wanted space.”

“I did.” Noct pauses. “I think I still do.”

Some part of Ignis, the desperate, wild part that runs on instinct, demands to know why Noctis insists on keeping his distance when Ignis has done so much - _given_ so much - to keep Noct safe and powerful. But Ignis quells it, clenching his fists beneath the bedsheets, and says, “I understand, Noct.”

The new sunlight flashes in Noct’s eyes when he nods. “Thanks.”

“I want to apologize, though, for disappearing without a trace once more. I didn’t want to leave you this time. I had no idea that you’d be searching for another-” He stops. “How long was I in that cave?”

Noct grimaces. “How would you feel if I told you it was five days?”

Ignis blinks. “I don’t remember much of it,” he admits. “Flashes. Bits and pieces. The covenant made things complicated.”

“But really, it’s...fine. The stuff about being gone, I mean. You couldn’t have known.” Noct looks down. “Um.” He falls silent.

Ignis nods. He considers discussing the warp - if it really was a warp - from the depths of the Cygillan, but everything from before the covenant just feels so far away. Perhaps it isn’t the time. He clears his throat. “Noct, I, ah. I’m not sure if Gladio told you, but he and Prompto will be in here any minute now. We’re going to discuss plans for retrieving the car.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here.” Ignis shuffles up some more, propping the pillows behind his back for support. “This is my office now. Hand me my glasses.”

Noct plucks the glasses from atop the dresser and hands them to Ignis. “Some home office,” he mutters, grinning a bit, and just like that the tension of just a moment before is gone. They’ve always been able to adjust; this is just a different sort of adjustment.

Ignis returns the smile. “Princes must be flexible, Noct. We make do with that we have.” He pushes his glasses into position on his nose, blinking to get more acquainted with the improved vision. Noct swims into perfect clarity before him. “Ah. There you are.”

Noct waves. “There I am.”

The two of them grin at each other before Ignis lets out a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to bring it into some semblance of a style. He’ll need a shower, of course. And a shirt. Perhaps he should look into that.

Is Noct looking at him?

At that moment, the door to the caravan slams open, and after a few seconds of quick footsteps, Prompto bursts through the doorway of the bedroom, eyes wide. “Ignis! You’re awake!”

Ignis greets him with a nod. “Good morning, Prompto.”

“Morning, man. Feeling better?” Prompto flashes him a hopeful smile and runs his fingers through his own hair, blinking bemusedly when he comes back with a golden chocobo feather. It’s a charming look on him, and it does well to banish the exhausted darkness from beneath his eyes.

Ignis nods. “While I’ve certainly been better, today’s condition is passable.”

“Just say you’re fine, dude.” Prompto vaults onto the bed, bouncing to rest beside Ignis’s knees. “Gladio told me that you wanted to plan to get the Regalia back. Right, Noct?”

Noct’s eyes flick away from Ignis and towards Prompto. He clears his throat. “Right.”

“So what’re we waiting for?” Gladio asks, coming into the room and closing the door behind himself. He comes around to the other side of the bed and makes himself comfortable next to Ignis, wedging himself up against the wall. “We’ve got stuff to do.”

“Yes, let’s get started.” Ignis shifts himself up higher on his pillows, then gasps when the movement aggravates some dormant ache in his chest. He presses his hand to it, feeling his heart lurch out of rhythm with a vengeance. “Fuck,” he hisses despite himself.

Gladio puts his hand on Ignis’s shoulder. “Iggy, don’t push yourself. Your heart’s been under a lot of stress.”

“You can say that again,” Ignis grits out, but his heart already has settled back into the cadence it’s meant to follow. The moment has passed. He can do this.

Prompto protests, “We can wait, you know-”

“There’s no time,” Ignis insists, waving them off. “We know where the Regalia is. We’re not getting any younger, and the Regalia could be shipped off to Niflheim tomorrow for all we know. We strike tonight. I’ll even cook a meal to give us an edge.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yes, Prompto, I’m sure.” Ignis clears his throat. “Let’s get started.”

“C’mon, Noct, there’s a spot for you right here.” Prompto pats the bedsheets beside Ignis.

Noct hesitates; he’s still at the foot of the bed. “I’m fine here.”

 _He wanted space,_ Ignis’s mind reminds him, and he says, “Really, Prompto, it’s not a problem. If he wants-”

“He’s the king. He needs to see this and give his input,” Gladio interrupts. “It’s his car, after all.” He pauses, then adds, “I know I interrupted, Iggy, but...you know.”

“Forgiven,” Ignis tells him, elbowing him lightly.

“But really, Noct. Come on.” Gladio points at the spot Prompto has indicated. “Seat of honor. Royalty. Go for it.”

Noct’s dark eyes tick towards the floor. Ignis internally grimaces; he never meant to put Noct in such an uncomfortable position. But slowly, Noct comes around the side of the bed towards Ignis, passing Prompto and then climbing up onto the bed sheets.

Ignis waits patiently. He’s not about to rush him.

Noctis very carefully settles himself in at the head of the bed, leaning up next to Ignis and the headboard. He’s not wearing his jacket, so his bare arm nudges up against Ignis’s. Ignis can feel the tension in the way he sits.

“All good?” Gladio asks, wearing the look of a man who very clearly does not want the answer to be no.

Noct nods silently.

“Okay, so check this out,” Prompto says, grinning widely, and he sets his phone down on the sheets atop Ignis’s knees. “Sorry that the screen’s small, but it’s all we’ve got.” He taps at the screen, scrolling through a few options before opening up an app that Ignis doesn’t recognize. The screen goes black for a moment as everything loads, but when it does, it’s with the blocky lines and stark outline of a blueprint.

“A map?” Ignis asks, leaning closer.

“You bet.”

“How did you manage this, Prompto?” Ignis places his fingers on the image, zooming in to check some key features. “This looks like a military facility. It’s exquisite.”

“Turns out that access to an imperial airship gives you access to a bunch of other things as well. The ship we got happened to be based where they’re holding the Regalia, in their primary Duscae location.” Prompto wiggles a bit in spot, clearly excited. “Compatibility was a bit of a bitch, but we made our way around that. Couldn’t get get much other than this since we were pressed for time.”

Ignis squints at it. “Aracheole Stronghold? That’s the name?”

“Yeah. Weird name, right? Niflheim’s language sounds disgusting.”

“Hey,” Ignis says, and he twitches his knee up to send Prompto’s phone off balance. “I’m from Tenebrae. Watch what you say about my homeland.”

“It’s a weird language, dude.”

“You’re banned.”

“Can I still come, Iggy?”

“You’re always welcome, Gladio.”

“Aw,” Prompto whines, putting the phone back into place on Ignis’s legs. “What about Noct?”

“He can stay.”

“Why him?”

“I’m the king!” Noct protests.

“Not of Tenebrae!”

“Is this really what we’re doing?” Ignis asks. “Right now?”

Noct snorts; the air of his breath hits Ignis on his bare shoulder.

“Fine,” Prompto says, still grinning. “Back to it. Stealth is the name of the game.” He points to a spot on the map. “Here’s the entrance. The Regalia should be in the central holding area.”

“So you and Noct go in first. Try to track down the Regalia. We’ll be trailing behind to cover our asses.” Gladio flexes his fingers, opening and closing his fist as he contemplates. “I’m not quick enough to do a stealth kill, and Prompto’s guns aren’t silenced at all. You two are the quietest. If there’s any trouble, though, we’re right behind you.”

Noct snorts, “Surprised you’re letting us out on our own.”

“I don’t like it, but you keep doing it anyway.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose; Ignis is briefly guilty for how much stress he’s probably put Gladio through. “I swear, keeping track of you guys is like herding chocobos.”

“Chocobos are actually-”

“Prompto. It’s a metaphor.”

“Then why didn’t you just say _cats?”_

“Because I’m a horrible killjoy.” Gladio gets up from the bed, wiping his hands on his pants. “Everyone get dressed. We do this tonight.”

 

\---

 

Nightfall finds them inside the walls of Aracheole Stronghold, staring up at the tower that looms above them all. Searchlights roam across the concrete floor, threatening discovery at any moment. One of Ignis’s meals sits comfortably in their stomachs. It imbues them with strength for the battle that’s sure to come.

“I hate this place,” Ignis says quietly. Already, he feels suffocated in his own clothes, like oil has soaked them and left him weighed down. It reminds him, rather uncomfortably, of how it had felt to struggle through the Cygillan Sea. Darkness presses on his mind with a fearsome strength, pulsing towards him in unavoidable waves.

“Is it that thing?” Noct asks, pointing up to the dark tower. The air around it shimmers with redness; every few seconds, it blinks, sending out a new wave of scarlet poison. Ignis winces. Not even the magic of the meal is enough to banish the discomfort of the darkness.

“Yes. We have to take down that magitek generator,” Ignis warns, “or I fear I won’t be much use at all.”

Gladio scowls up at it. “Will do. We’ll have to get to that before we get the Regalia.”

Ignis nods.

“Okay, get going. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Come on, Ignis.” Noct taps Ignis on the elbow and runs off into the darkness, hardly rapping against the ground with footfalls lighter than Ignis has ever heard them be. It seems he did pay attention back in the Citadel. Ignis follows behind, joining him further within the stronghold behind a few crates. Magitek guards are actively patrolling in this sector. They need to die if there’s to be any chance of getting the Regalia back.

 _They’re just mechanical,_ he reminds himself. _It’s not murder if they’re machines._

The mantra is helpful, though he finds he didn’t need it as much as he used to.

All the better, then.

He crouches beside Noctis. “We need to take these troopers down.”

“I can warp in.”

“Good idea. On your mark.”

Noct holds his hand out to his side, and the air crackles and sparks before granting him a short, wicked dagger. He flips it in his hand a couple of times, ending up in a familiar grip: reverse. Ignis’s preferred method.

“Not your usual,” Ignis notes softly.

Noct shrugs. “It’s more subtle this way. Harder to aim with a whole sword.” He raises his hand, holding the dagger between his fingertips in anticipation of his strike. Light and loose and ready to let death rain upon the enemy, just as they’ve practiced.

Ignis leans in close, looking at the trooper Noct’s chosen. He almost pities it. It’ll never realize it was destroyed by a king.

But that’s all peripheral. There’s no room here for emotions. Just duty. Just the hunt. He blinks, focusing on the sound of Noct’s breathing. In this silence, it’s a welcome thunder.

Noct leans towards him in return, lining up his strike. “Do you see it?” he breathes. “Left side. The one all alone.”

“I do.” Ignis leans closer. “Perfect,” he encourages. He grabs Noct’s wrist, carefully adjusting his aim. “Go for the neck instead.”

He keeps his fingers on Noct’s wrist, feeling the jolt of skin-to-skin contact when his exposed thumb brushes Noct’s skin. _Focus,_ he tells himself. _Focus._

“Ready?” he asks, and Noct nods, so close that they’re nearly sharing breath, pressed together in the shadows of the stronghold and aiming down the same sights.

Ignis forgets that Noct ever asked for space.

It seems like Noct has too.

A small shiver wracks his shoulders, sending vibrations into Ignis, and he breathes, “Ready.”

“Now,” Ignis whispers, and Noctis throws the dagger.

He disappears from the world in a hail of magic.

Ignis falls off balance, thrown by the loss of his support in the form of Noct. When next he sees him, he bursts into existence in a muted explosion of sylleblossom-blue sparks, burying the knife in the joint where the trooper’s neck meets its torso. He wraps his legs around its shoulders to take it to the ground. It makes hardly any sound, cushioned when Noct rolls with the inertia of its demise to take the brunt of the fall.

Lethal.

Ignis smiles.

Impeccable form.

Noct rolls out from beneath the body of the trooper, places his foot on its chest, and pulls his dagger from its neck. He turns to Ignis, gives the all clear sign, and crouches low again, slinking into the shadows. Ignis almost loses track of him, but he goes into motion anyway, slowly creeping through the shadows to follow him. He blinks at the flash of searchlights on the honed steel of Noct’s dagger and then there are twin bursts of starlight, one after the other, as Noct disappears and reappears, knocking a lone trooper to the ground.

So the hunt is on.

He trails along behind Noct, tracking him by the comet trail he leaves behind. At times, he steps through the ghostly blue image Noct creates, shivering at the reminder of the magic of kings.

There are still troopers that Noct leaves behind: some of them are in pairs, patrolling on the ground. Noct is better suited to getting the lookouts up above, so Ignis is the one to take down the others, slipping his daggers between the synthetic plates of armor to disable the soldiers. Sometimes, when he looks over his shoulder, he sees Gladio and Prompto silhouetted in the shadows, pulling the corpses of magitek troopers into dark corners. No evidence. Nobody left alive.

He grins. It’s what they deserve. This empire has taken so much from them; it surely won’t miss a few troopers.

The four of them make their way through the stronghold in a similar fashion: Noct and Ignis take the lead, splitting the imperial base by the high points and the low, and Gladio and Prompto take up the rear to loot the bodies and ensure that they will not be caught. It’s slow going, but the plan is working perfectly.

Ignis grimaces around the pulsating darkness that still presses into his awareness. It may not disturb him as much as it once used to, but being so consistently exposed to it has him gritting his teeth. The golden light at the center of his being shrinks from his veins and hides deep, deep within his heart, taking shelter beside the covenants and the armory for now. It worries Ignis that he’s not quite strong enough to challenge the magitek might of this single base.

It doesn’t even ask him to _heal_ anymore. It’s just silent, like it knows it’s outnumbered.

No matter. He has power beyond the abilities of the Oracle. Knives work just as well without songs of stars to guide them. Death is constant, at least. He can rely on that.

They end up at the center of the stronghold, emerging from a large gateway onto a wide open expanse. To the left sits the Regalia, shining and apparently unharmed beside a few dormant airships. To the right looms the magitek generator and several mechanical armors.

“Let’s just take the old girl and get out of here,” Prompto begs. “Avoid the fight.”

Gladio shakes his head. “They won’t let us off that easily, and we all know that.”

Noct says, “What about-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

A siren begins going off, low and insistent and loud, and with every mechanical yell it makes, Ignis’s heart sinks further.

“This was a trap,” he says, summoning his daggers. He decides on ice this time, relying on Shiva to lend him the strength that his golden light alone cannot provide. He figures there’ll be too many soldiers for him to bother mounting an individual attack anyway. He’s ready for a horde.

“They knew we’d come for her,” Noct replies, and he trades his dagger for the engine blade. The sword rumbles its eagerness over the claxon, and for a moment the four of them stand together in a circle against the might of Niflheim.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Troopers swarm out of barracks, and magitek armors chug to life, rising up to face them with the inexorable energy of those who care not for their own lives. Ignis sends a quick prayer up to whichever astral might be listening, and he dives into action.

Slash. Stab. Repeat.

Over and over and over again, Ignis jams his daggers into the necks of the troopers, at times even skewering soldiers through their magitek cores with his spear. But still the soldiers do not die, chattering angrily at him with half-broken vocalizers and picking up their weapons to continue the fight.

It’s the darkness, Ignis realizes with rising horror. They can’t possibly beat these troopers when they’re powered by the generator. They’re the antithesis of everything Ignis is: here, at whatever time it is at night, in the heart of Aracheole Stronghold, they have every advantage. Ignis is just one Oracle. He cannot fend off the might of an entire imperial base’s magitek infantry.

Prompto seems to have gotten a similar idea. He reloads his revolver as frantically as he can, firing off a few shots with his off hand as he does it. “They’re too strong!”

“It’s the generator!” Gladio yells, pointing to it. It rises up into the sky, a spire of black and red, emitting pulses of rippling scarlet energy. Ignis’s heart beats between the waves of darkness, fearful of its might.

More troopers come running out onto the tarmac, brandishing wickedly sharp axes. There are too many of them.

There’s no way they’ll be able to take them all on.

“Noct!” Ignis calls. “We must retreat!” He will not sacrifice their king for the sake of one car, family heirloom or not.

When Noctis whips his head around to look at Ignis, his eyes shine bright red.

Divine.

“Ignis,” he says, and in his voice there sounds the ominous rumble of a coming storm. “Stay back.”

Ignis staggers backwards on instinct alone, feeling every hair on his body stand up. The air smells like petrichor and steel, and he doesn’t know how he couldn’t have recognized it earlier. “Get back!” he yells to anyone that is not Noctis, because nobody save for the Chosen can now bear the might of the Fulgurian.

And then the lightning strikes.

There are several of them this time, hitting the ground around Noctis in rapid succession. The force of them drives Ignis stumbling backwards into Gladio’s waiting arms, and Prompto grabs him by the arm, and together the three of them watch Noctis wield the power of the storm.

Ramuh appears in the heartbeat of disarmingly blinding light as the final bolt meets the ground at Noct’s feet. He looms out of the storm clouds, silent and terrifying. His eyes are still the same disconcerting pale silver of fog, the color of wind if it were given form. He reaches out his hand, lifting Noctis into the air. It reminds Ignis so strikingly of how Titan had once held him that he nearly sobs with the memory of it. But this time it’s Noctis, held aloft above the hordes of enemies.

The Fulgurian raises his staff into the air, and Ignis’s golden light calls out to it, remembering the blessing on Angelgard.

The world explodes in static, heralding the coming burst of divine energy. Announcing the storm.

Ignis feels the strike in his soul, because it _was_ his soul, once long before on an island untouched by time.

He hears, above the thunder, the sound of someone crying out, and he only realizes afterwards that it’s his own voice.

And then the light fades to embers on the ground, and the field of troopers lies still, devoid of all function.

And then Ramuh sets Noctis down on the ground once more, wordless still. He rises into the air, locking eyes with Ignis only briefly, and then crackles into starlight once more.

“I know now,” Prompto says in a voice gone soft with awe. “I know why the tales are told.”

“You got that right,” Gladio says roughly, and when Ignis dares to look at him, he thinks he sees a tear shining in a line down his dark cheek. But maybe it’s only a trick of the light. Gladio lets go of Ignis, patting him carefully on the back, and heads out into the plaza. Prompto follows, stumbling around the fallen, twisted bodies of the magitek troopers.

The magitek generator shudders a final time, creaking on half-melted foundations, and then bursts, leaning to the side and going dark at last. The red miasma clears from the air, and at last Ignis can breathe again.

Aracheole Stronghold falls silent.

They’ve won.

“Gods,” Ignis breathes, and then he just says, “Thank you.”

Maybe Ramuh will hear it.

The clouds clear, disappearing now that the Fulgurian has no need for them. The sun creeps over the horizon, and Ignis turns his face towards it, feeling his remaining golden light rising up to do the same. Its light does more for him than potions ever could.

“Feeling better?” Noct asks quietly, coming up beside him.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Ignis replies, turning away from the sun to meet Noct’s eyes. “I’ve not seen you wield the power of the gods before. I know what Ramuh’s blessing feels like.” Even the thought of it makes his heart lurch painfully, reminding him of when he’d nearly killed himself with the might of the Fulgurian.

Noct tilts his head to the side. His eyes still have a violet cast to them, but they’re blue enough to ease Ignis’s nerves. “I’m fine, I think. Just a little shaken. I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so...big.”

“Shock value, I’m sure.”

“Was that a pun?”

Ignis allows himself a smile. “It might have been.”

Noctis chuckles a little bit, and the music of it it a welcome way to break the gravelike silence of the stronghold. “Good to know the gods haven’t taken your sense of humor from you yet.”

“Not yet,” Ignis agrees lightly, and he beckons for Noctis to follow him towards where Gladio and Prompto are already heading for the Regalia. “Not yet.”

Gladio turns when he hears them coming. “Hell of a light show, Your Highness,” he praises, clapping Noct on the back.

Noct ducks his head, protesting a little bit when Prompto ruffles his hair. “Had to get you guys off my back a bit. Can’t say I don’t have muscle when I’ve got the gods at my back, can you?”

“You’re a little too optimistic, Princess, but good try.”

“There she is! Good as new.” A little skip appears in Prompto’s step, and he hops closer to the Regalia, ushering them along.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Noct scoffs.

Prompto lets them go on ahead, slowing down to cover their tracks. His footsteps slow to a stop, though, after a moment, and Ignis feels a chill run down his spine. “Uh, guys?”

Ignis turns, furrowing his brow. There’s no time to waste. “Prompto-”

He stops.

Oh.

_Ravus._

Prompto stumbles back to Ignis, not quite falling behind him, but staying just beside him. He pulls a gun out in a shower of sparks, holding it with both hands. He still aims it towards the ground, but Ignis can sense the tension in his stance.

Gladio steps in front of Noct and is immediately met with a saber point to his throat.

Ignis’s heart lurches again. _Not this._ He steps closer out of reflex, but Ravus’s dark silver and purple prosthetic arm raises and holds its hand out to him in a gesture that clearly orders him to stop. He halts; Prompto stays glued to his side.

Ravus orders, “Be still, all of you.”

“What the hell do you want?” Noct asks roughly.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Ravus’s lip curls. “Look how you’ve grown, Chosen King.” The title sounds like poison in his voice. “And here you are in an imperial stronghold, practically begging for your own death.”

“We’re just taking back what’s ours,” Noct snarls.

Ravus has his sword to Gladio’s throat and his magitek arm extended towards Ignis, repelling both of them. It’s a clever tactic, Ignis will admit. He’s not used to feeling the darkness in his mind during the daytime, so Ravus’s arm is entirely disconcerting.

How much did Ravus plan this? How much did he assess himself and his own golden light to realize the reality of the magitek poison he wears?

How much pain must Ravus be in for his every waking moment?

“Ravus,” Ignis says at last, stepping forward once more despite his golden light shrinking back in protest.

Prompto shoots him a frantic, disbelieving look. “Ravus?” he hisses.

Helplessly, Ignis shrugs, but he doesn’t look away from Ravus. “Ravus, please.”

“I heard reports of a missing dropship,” Ravus tells them. His eyes - icy gray and disconcerting violet - snap to meet Ignis’s. “A missing dropship, after I’d cleared its _inspection.”_

Ignis swallows.

Ravus’s frown deepens. “I’d hoped that you would have had the foresight to at least return it to its regular patrols after you used it, not crash it into the sea.”

“Whoops?” Prompto pipes up.

The full weight of Ravus’s gaze falls on Prompto. The sword at Gladio’s throat doesn’t move, however, held there with perfect control. “You. The pilot, I presume.”

“More than that.” Prompto squares his shoulders. “I’m Crownsguard. For Noct and for Ignis.”

“Hm.” Ravus regards Prompto carefully. “A surprise. Though Ignis _could_ use a reminder of home by his side.”

Prompto scowls. “The hell does that mean?” he asks, and his left hand moves to wrap around his right wrist.

Interest gleams in Ravus’s eyes, which follow Prompto’s movement and stay focused on his wrist for a moment. Ignis fears that he might say something and ruin all of this with the revelation of what the hidden barcode may mean, but instead a small smirk crosses his lips and he looks up once more. “No matter. But I was under the impression that royalty had its own shield.”

“You bet it does,” Gladio growls, still standing with the saber tip at his throat.

“Ah.” Ravus seems to remember that he has a Crownsguard at his mercy. “You. The Shield who ran.”

Gladio bares his teeth.

“You abandoned King Regis to his fate,” Ravus muses softly. “Though your father certainly did his part until his demise.”

“I stayed with my prince,” Gladio says. “The future king.”

“And you all ran rather than face your fates, and took the gods’ beloved with you.” Ravus scowls. “A cowardly Shield for a cowardly king.”

“You would know a thing or two about cowardice,” Gladio retorts, “seeing as you joined the people who destroyed your home.”

Something dangerous flashes in Ravus’s eyes, and he hisses, “And who left my home to that fate?”

There must be some weakness in the force of his rage, because Gladio takes advantage of it, stepping to the side and bringing his arm around in a dangerous arc. As he does, he bats Ravus’s sword away with his shield, summoning and then banishing it in the blink of an eye. Ravus sets his jaw and brings his saber down in an overhead strike, but Gladio is prepared, summoning his greatsword between both his hands and catching Ravus’s blade on the flat of his own.

Nobody dares speak. There is no sound but the sickening scratch of steel against steel as the two of them stand in a deadly stalemate.

Then Gladio resets his footing.

Ignis doesn’t miss the movement. He’s sparred enough against Gladio to know that his friend is immovable in battle. He picks his position and sticks with it. For him to willingly uproot himself is concerning. And it shows in the way his brow furrows and the muscles in his arms twitch with the effort of holding off the High Commander of Niflheim.

Ravus smirks. He holds firm against Gladio, showing no sign of strain. He’s not even using his magitek arm. “A weak shield protects naught. Not one prince, and certainly not two.”

“Ravus!” Ignis cries, but Ravus ignores him.

In a single fluid movement, he knocks Gladio’s sword aside and slams his elbow into his chest, sending Gladio flying backwards into the Regalia. The greatsword of the King’s Shield shatters into blue starlight before it even hits the ground. Prompto rushes to his side, leaving Ignis with Noct. He drops into a crouch, wrapping an arm around Gladio’s shoulders to support him. The smell of steel in the air strengthens, and silver-blue bullets scatter from his palm when he presses it to Gladio’s chest.

“Why?” Ignis asks quietly, but Ravus has no eyes for him. He focuses on Gladio.

“Just as I thought. You are not worthy of my brother.” Ravus sheaths his sword at his side. He flexes his magitek fingers again. “Weak,” he sneers.

Noctis steps forward, shielding Gladio and Prompto with the sheer force of his presence. “You wanna go? Let’s go.” He throws his arm out to the side, the air crackles, and his armiger explodes into existence around him in a spinning halo.

“You seek a fight?”

“You have my father’s sword,” Noctis snarls.

“You would lay claim to the weapon of a tyrant?” Ravus sneers. “You are truly his heir, then.”

“A tyrant?” Noct asks, and the weapons of the kings shudder, threatening a storm of steel.

“Ravus, please,” Ignis implores softly, stepping forward. He’s all too aware of Noct standing just behind him, looming with the might of gods and kings. “We need only take our car and go in peace.”

A chill runs down his spine when Ravus’s ice-and-lavender gaze lands on him. “Your choice is still the same, then.”

Ignis swallows. “It is.”

“You’re pale, brother. Have the gods taken so much from you already?” Again, the magitek fingers twitch, and Ravus sneers, “All this for the Chosen King. All hail his might.”

“The covenants do not harm me in the way you think,” Ignis lies. “I will survive them.”

 _Only two more,_ he reminds himself. _There are only two more._

Ravus makes a quiet noise of disgust. “You are throwing your life away for this pampered prince. He does not deserve you.”

“Hey,” Noct growls, stepping forward, but Ignis stops him.

Ignis reaches through the halo of swords, placing his hand carefully on Noct’s shoulder. Wherever his body intersects with the crystalline blades of past kings and queens, he can feel the icy resistance as they pass through his body. Each time, the blade has a faint whisper that sounds in his ears, coming and going as the dead ruler’s weapon speeds through his flesh. It’s almost like the Trident, but without the comfort of familiarity. But past them stands Noct.

Royal.

“Noct,” Ignis murmurs, relying on the sturdiness of Noctis beneath his hand. “Noct, we need not fight.”

Or, rather, they need not fight this time. Not Ravus. Not these two who hold such crucial parts of Ignis’s heart. Either way this fight goes, Ignis knows that he will end up losing.

Something in Ignis’s heart drops, and it screams _run-_

And he hears something-

And it almost sounds like the crackle of a warp-

“Ah! Must we fight, my friends?”

Ignis’s head immediately explodes with darkness and pain. He grits his teeth, fighting the wave of nausea that comes with the arrival of something or someone so poisoned by hate. It’s hard not to recognize the feeling of it, and the voice, and even that reminds him of that first time so long ago in Insomnia.

Could it be?

No. Stop. No distractions. Focus on the moment. Focus on now.

He turns his head towards the source of his growing pain, swallowing past the discomfort of it. It’s not nearly as bad as Galdin Quay, but he still hates that someone’s mere presence can nearly bring him to his knees. The same someone as he’d expected. He should have known he’d show up here.

“Chancellor Izunia,” Ignis greets him stiffly, more out of royal habit than any modicum of respect. He doesn’t fail to notice that Ravus remains silent; he catches the movement as his brother’s eyes flicker down towards the ground. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Noct drops the armiger, but the air still crackles with static.

“It would seem that I’m the damage control!” Ardyn simpers, stepping around to inspect the lot of them. His golden eyes narrow, and he almost chuckles when he passes Prompto, who swallows before deliberately reloading his gun. “This was almost a blood bath, was it not? And a pleasant family reunion besides!” He places a hand on Ravus’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, High Commander Fleuret?”

Ravus says nothing.

“Ah, shy in public. No matter.” Ardyn whirls to face the rest of them, sending his scarf and cloak flying like the wings of some horrid bird. “You’ll be thanking me soon enough.”

“Unlikely,” Gladio says. He stands up from where he’d been kneeling. He rolls his shoulder back, probably trying to alleviate the pain in his chest. “What do you want?”

“Only to offer my aid.” Ardyn pauses and raises a single finger. “Ah. I misspoke. I have already offered my aid. The Niflheim army is retreating.”

“Retreating?” Gladio repeats. “Why?”

“We’ve bigger fish to fry, as it were. Isn’t that so, High Commander?”

Ignis frowns. “Leviathan.” He looks to Ravus. “You have intentions for her?” The same the empire had for Titan, surely. Ignis has not forgotten how much Ravus fears the weight of the covenants. The Oracle’s burden is not a secret. Not in their family, where ancestral names fade as surely as their owners had.

Ravus looks up to meet his gaze. His left eye shines a darker violet than it had just a few minutes ago, though maybe it’s all in the way the light catches there. “The Emperor’s gaze turns towards the Hydraean,” he says flatly. “My duty is to carry out his will.”

“An admirable sense of loyalty,” Ardyn praises, placing his hand on Ravus’s shoulder.

Ravus flinches.

Ardyn smiles. “The Fleurets are all so devoted to their causes, are they not? Especially our dear false prophet. She’s delightfully invested in the ruse. Not a soul is the wiser.”

“Don’t talk about my sister like that,” Ignis says through gritted teeth. _And take your hand off my brother._

“How many others know about him?” Noct asks at last. The air sparks with static again, like the armiger is desperate to loose itself from his skin.

Ardyn puts his hand on his chest, eyes widening. “I would never tell another’s secret! Save for our lovely High Commander, I am the only imperial citizen to know the truth of the youngest of the Nox Fleurets.”

Ignis flinches. His family’s name sounds like a taunt in Ardyn’s voice.

“So I’ll leave you to your devices until next we meet. Bid farewell to your brother, would you, Lord Fleuret?”

Noct stiffens beside him. “Ignis,” he mutters. “Don’t do what he says.”

Ignis almost obeys. He does. But he says, “But Ravus is my brother,” and he’s not sure he’s ever heard his voice sound quite so small. “I don’t know when I’ll see him again.” The last time he’d run away, it had been a decade ago.

Ardyn smiles. His eyes gleam gold like a predator’s.

Ignis ignores him and steps forward a bit, not straying too far from Noctis. “Ravus, I-”

Ravus holds up a hand - his human hand this time, without the taint of darkness on it. “Be safe, Ignis.”

He wishes he could say more. He wishes he could hug his brother, but showing such affection before the chancellor feels like a sin. Instead Ignis nods, holds up his own hand in farewell, and says, “You as well, Ravus.” He swallows around the knot of tears in his throat.

“A pleasure,” Ardyn purrs, and he bows. “Come along, High Commander.”

Ravus gives Ignis a final, long stare, and at last Ignis can see the despair in his eyes.

 _Heal,_ his heart suggests quietly, and he nearly sobs to hear it.

Ravus bows his head, turns, and walks away.

Ignis would mourn him, if only he didn’t feel quite so empty.

Noct puts his hand on Ignis’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

Ignis doesn’t have it in him to protest. He allows Noct to guide him to the Regalia and coax him inside, where Prompto and Gladio are already waiting. He straps in without thinking, staring out the window and not at the others. He doesn’t think he can bear to look at them right now. Not when they’ve all witnessed what the empire has made of their family, and what it’s done to his brother.

Shame. That’s the word.

Or fear.

With Noctis at the wheel, the Regalia makes her way past them all, reunited with the four of them once more.

Nobody bothers them.

Metal corpses litter the floor of the stronghold, gleaming in the sunlight. So many of them are lightning-charred by the wrath of the Fulgurian. Other troopers march alongside their fallen comrades, picking their way across the tarmac graveyard. Some of them turn their heads to watch their car as they pass. Others pick up the empty bodies of their brothers, dragging them off to a place Ignis can’t discern. Some stagger back when the car passes, perhaps repelled by whatever golden light Ignis has left. None of them attack, though.

All is silent.

The whole time, Ignis can feel the eyes watching him.

The darkness creeps down his spine, not banished by the sunlight this time.

They leave the stronghold.

Ignis can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	13. lestallum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing and hurting.

It almost feels as if the Regalia is happy to have him back at the wheel.

He’s never thought about it until now, but it’s been weeks since he last sat in these comfortable leather seats. It’s been a week since Ramuh, a week since Titan, and a week since he left the three of them behind to set out for Cauthess. Ignis relishes in the feeling of the wind in his hair; he’s never been a big fan of chocobos, favoring instead the steady high speeds of the open road and a metal mount.

It’s good to have everyone in the car as well, and just having people around sets Ignis’s mind at ease. It’s a welcome respite from the memories of his ordeal in Fociaugh Hollow, filling the hollow in his heart where loneliness has taken up residence in lieu of what he’s given up. Ignis can’t even find it in himself to mind the others’ complaints about the wind, or the sun, or the rain, or any number of minor inconveniences along the way.

He thinks he might have even missed them.

They’d gone back to the Chocobo Post for a final rest before loading up the car and at last leaving Wiz’s camper behind. Wiz had been sad to see them go, though Ignis is sure nobody was more heartbroken to leave than Prompto. He’d even gotten up early just to say the proper farewells to his favorites of the flock.

With a good night’s sleep behind them, they’d all gotten back into the Regalia with Ignis back behind the wheel at long last. And now they’re bound for Lestallum once more, planning to catch up with Iris before heading for the hidden harbor at Cape Caem. That’s their only ticket across the sea. 

Leviathan waits across the sea.

Leviathan, and Lunafreya, and Ravus’s wrath against the gods who’ve never heard his pleas.

Ignis tries not to think about that too hard.

“Back on the road!” Prompto crows, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Feels good to be back. And not a scratch on her!”

“None that we’ve seen,” Noct corrects, and Ignis catches a glimpse of his scowl in the rearview mirror. “What if Ardyn  _ hid  _ something in here?”

Gladio looks up from his book, setting it down in his lap carefully with a finger holding the page. “What would he hide in the car?”

“Something weird. I dunno. He’s creepy.”

Ignis says, “I’m glad you finally agree.”

“He’s always been creepy,” Prompto says. “Dude, you weren’t even there when he forced us to stay the night with him! He kept trying to  _ touch  _ me, man!”

“So what happened?”

“I mean, we told him off, but we also kinda needed him.”

Gladio shakes his head and returns to his reading, leaning comfortably against the door of the Regalia. The wind tugs at the pages, but he doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally lifting his head to turn his face into the sunlight and soak it up. “What matters is that he’s leaving us alone.”

“For now,” Ignis says.

Noct shrugs. “Whatever.” He closes his eyes, slouches down in his seat, and looks like he’s about to take a nap.

Ignis turns his attention back to the road. Prompto goes silent, fiddling with his camera, and Gladio turns a page in his book. Ignis doesn’t bother putting on the radio; the lack of extra noise lets him enjoy the calls of the arbas outside on the plains, and of the birds that circle overhead. Lucis truly is beautiful.

The car makes its way past a forest, giving way to bowing pines with softly swaying branches. Ignis inhales the scent of them, still marveling at how green the world can smell after a childhood spent in Insomnia.

He blinks.

Something’s there.

Just on the edge of his consciousness, creeping down his spine with a familiar chill, something dark blooms.

The car swerves.

“What the hell?” Gladio yelps, slamming his book shut.

“Apologies!” Ignis says, hurriedly pulling the car back on track. “Distracted.”

Noct cracks an eye open, looking at Ignis in the rearview mirror. “That’s a first.”

“I’m full of surprises, Noct.”

“Apparently.”

Ignis tries to ignore the feeling after that. But as he follows the road through the woods, the sensation builds until he can hardly ignore it. There’s not supposed to be a stronghold anywhere near here, and yet the daytime darkness grows, calling to him in its poisonous voice. Following the desperate instinct in his heart, Ignis pulls the car to the side of the road, ignoring the frustrated beep of the car behind him as he slows down. “Wait a moment.”

Beside him, Prompto leans forward, staring out the windshield. “What’s the big idea, man? There’s nothing here but trees.”

Ignis shakes his head and puts the car into park. He turns the keys to shut off the Regalia, and he nearly fumbles them with the way his hands are shaking. “No, there’s something more. I feel it.” He opens the door and stands at the side of the road, turning his face towards the source of the discomfort. Yes, there it is. “Something dark,” he murmurs, and he shivers.

Noct gets out too, frowning in the general direction Ignis is facing. “Dark like daemons?” he asks. “It’s broad daylight.”

“No,” Ignis says softly, and he closes his eyes, casting his senses out towards the darkness. “No. It’s similar, though.” With a twinge, his heart reminds him to  _ heal,  _ and that’s what makes his mind up for him. “I’m going to check it out,” he announces.

“Not on your own, you’re not,” Gladio warns. “I’m going with you, which means Noct’s coming too.”

Prompto hops out of the Regalia, stretching after so long on the road. “Me three!” He rolls his shoulders a few times, probably trying to get them to crack, and then straightens the vest of his fatigues. “Think there’ll be any nasties?”

“I can’t be sure,” Ignis admits, and he sets off into the trees. “But I can’t in good conscience leave it behind.” It could be a trap, of course. Magitek troopers certainly give off a similar signature, but this darkness feels more benign than usual, forcing Ignis’s heart to beat all the faster in anticipation.

Swaying pines dip their branches down to meet them as they forge a way through the forest. Ignis smiles privately when he hears Prompto sputter around a mouthful of pine needles, and he hears Noct snort a little bit at the sight. It’s good that their spirits are up; they could use the laughter after the time they’ve had. Ignis chances a glance backward to see that Gladio seems to be moving without much difficulty. It seems as if Ravus only bruised his spirit, which Ignis supposes was the best case scenario.

They can work through this. Ignis knows they can. They just need to make it to Altissia now.

But for now, he must see what’s going on here.

Ignis pushes his way past a few more low boughs, feeling the dark discomfort in the back of his mind grow to a throbbing ache. He grimaces and continues onward, emerging into a clearing.

“Who’s there?”

Ignis freezes.

Several figures wait in the clearing.

He reaches down to his side, flexing his fingers around the suggestion of a blade. With this darkness in the back of his mind, magitek troopers can’t be far. 

But there are tents on the ground, and old cars parked in a line, and people milling about in colors other than those found on Niflheim armor.

There are children here.

This isn’t a military camp at all.

“Gods,” he murmurs, stepping forward a bit further into the clearing.

Somehow, he’s stumbled upon a tent town in the middle of Duscae. It’s not too big, but it’s clear that multiple families have decided to make a temporary home in this clearing. The tents lean up against half-shattered walls of some old remnant of Lucis or Solheim, all worn cloth against hard stone. Ignis can see several black and silver crests on the cloth tents, and he’d recognize the style of some of this clothing anywhere. Not just anybody wears clothes like that in Lucis. 

Some of these people are Insomnians. Refugees.

He might have known these people once, in a world before the war. He might have blessed some of them; he might have attended services at their sides.

Others have camps set up alongside the rusted old cars that are characteristic of Lucians native to the larger continent. It seems that not only the Insomnians have been displaced by the war.

Ignis steps forward, offering a small smile. “Good afternoon. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Startled us, is all,” one of the men says. Gods, it’s nice to hear an accent from the Crown City. “Place is open to all.” He squints at Ignis, walking closer to him. “What brings you out here?”

“Healing,” Ignis says out of instinct. Now that he thinks about it, maybe he  _ is  _ here to heal. He gestures, and the other three of his companions emerge into the clearing as well. “It’s the least I can do. We try to do what we can for Lucis. Taking hunts, healing those afflicted by illnesses…” He trails off. “That is, if there are any afflicted in your midst.”

The man comes a little closer. As he does, Noct steps further forward, and Ignis doesn’t need to look at him to know the intensity of his gaze. The man halts before he can get within an arm’s reach of Ignis, holding his hands up in a quiet surrender. “Hey, I don’t mean any trouble. I can take you to our sick. If I’m understanding you right, we’ve got a few of them.” He lowers his voice, then says, “The dark sickness. The one that comes in the night.”

_ Starscourge. _

“That’s the one,” Ignis says, and the golden light in his heart warms with satisfaction, purring that he’s on the right track.  _ Heal,  _ it orders him, voice soft like a lover’s.  _ Heal- _

Sounds familiar-

_ Heal- _

“What?”

Ignis blinks. “Sorry, what?” He looks to the source of the voice. “Oh. Noct. What?”

“You went blank for a second. Trailed off and then said something that sounded like-” He shrugs. “Dunno. Thought you had something to say to me.”

“Oh. I must have lost my train of thought.” Ignis shrugs weakly. “My apologies.”

Noct frowns, but says no more.

Ignis looks from the others, and then to the man, and then back again. He announces, “I’m going to go with him.”

Gladio stares. “To do what?”

“To heal these refugees of the Starscourge, Gladiolus.” Ignis adjusts his glasses, staring up at Gladio with as much firmness as he can muster.

Prompto shifts from foot to foot. “Dude, we need to get going.”

“This’ll only take a moment.”

Gladio leans over and mutters in his ear, quietly enough that the man doesn’t hear him, “We don’t  _ have _ a moment.”

Ignis turns his head so he can look Gladio in the eye. “It’s true that the king’s calling must be fulfilled,” he says quietly, “but so too must the Oracle help his people. There is more than one way to win the war with darkness.”

“Ignis...” Gladio rubs at the back of his neck. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t, but my point stands. There’s much to be done. My calling extends to more than just forging covenants.”

Gladio presses his lips together into a thin line. “Take Prompto with you, at least.”

“Deal.” Ignis reaches over and hooks his fingers in a few of Prompto’s wristbands. “You’re with me.”

Prompto shakes him off with a wink, shouldering up beside him as the two of them go join the refugee man. “Think it’ll be quick?” he asks.

“Surely. We’ll be at Lestallum in no time.” Ignis cracks his knuckles, trying to relieve the tension that comes with being in close proximity to darkness. “Just a quick healing of a person or two.”

“Have you ever actually healed someone before?” Prompto’s quiet about it this time, and his eyes are wide with the realization that none of them quite know what this healing business is all about, let alone the Oracle himself.

Ignis shrugs.

Prompto puts his face in his hands.

Ignis laughs. “Optimism, Prompto. Learn by doing.”

“It’s how you’ve been doing everything,” Prompto groans, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Indeed.”

“Have you seen how well that’s been going for us, man?”

“Y’know, before we go any further,” the man says, rounding on the two of them with something uncertain in his expression, “I have to ask something.”

Prompto adjusts his stance beside Ignis, taking his hands from his pockets. “Yeah?” he asks, voice still light. The air crackles with the suggestion of electricity.

The man steps back a bit, holding his hands up in a quiet surrender. “Well, I’m not, y’know. I’m not dumb. I’ve been an Insomnian all my life.”

_ Oh, dear. _

Ignis blinks and stays silent, not wanting to lead this man down a train of thought that he might not actually be having. 

The man is in fact following that particular train. “I’d know the face of the Oracle anywhere,” he murmurs. “The true Oracle.”

“Wait,” Ignis says, but it’s too late.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness,” the man breathes, and he makes to bow.

Prompto reaches out, lightning-fast, and catches him by the shoulder. “Don’t,” he says quietly.

The man startles upwards, eyes wide. “I- I didn’t mean anything by it, sir, please-”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Ignis warns him. “Keep it quiet that we’re here. We’re happy to help, but we need your help as well if there’s any hope of reclaiming what’s ours.” He squeezes the man’s shoulder. “For all of us, right?”

The man nods frantically, gazing up at Ignis with something approaching rapture. “Of course, Your Highness. Sir. Uh.”

“How about Ignis? Ignis Scientia, if anybody asks. At your service.” Ignis smiles. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Hope, sir.” He smiles widely and laughs a little bit, probably giddy. “I’m called Hope.”

“Hope,” Ignis repeats. “That’s a good name, my friend. Now, would you care to show me your ill?”

Hope nods eagerly. “Of course. Right this way, uh. Ignis.” He sets off towards one of the clusters of tents, beckoning them along behind him. 

Prompto flashes him an amused grin and saunters off in Hope’s wake. Ignis shrugs and makes to follow. He looks back, and Gladio is there beside Noct, arms crossed defensively. He’s quietly warning off a young woman who seems desperate to bow to Noct. Noct, for his part, looks equal parts unnerved and amused, and instead takes the woman’s hand and offers her a small smile and nod. It’s a respectable alternative, and the woman bursts into tears, so she must have appreciated the gesture.

Good.

It’s not the most subtle approach to this, but none of them were ever trained for going incognito in the midst of a war, occupation, and refugee crisis. Ignis is willing to call this first attempt a victory.

The native Lucians pay him no mind, but a few of the Insomnians mutter as he passes, eyes widening. Hope quells them with some sort of meaningful look, and Prompto squares his shoulders, moving closer to Ignis as they push their way into one of the larger tents.

The change in the atmosphere is immediate. Ignis nearly falls backwards, affected by the sheer force of it as he is. This tent is the center of all of this darkness, and his heart begs him to do something about it. Several people lie in makeshift cots on the ground, shivering as they curl up onto themselves for warmth. Ignis’s heart aches for them. He even sees a child there, a girl of no older than ten, shivering in a corner.

He goes to her first.

As he crouches before her, he asks, “Please, if you would, just give me some space,” with as much authority as he can muster. His nerves rattle, though, reminding him that he’s never truly done something like this before.

The people keep to the sides, though, and Ignis tries his best to make this work.

He’s the Oracle. He can do this.

“Hello,” he says quietly, and she blinks up at him with sad, gold-tinted eyes.

Not gold like light. Gold like sulfur. 

Gold like Ardyn Izunia.

This cannot stand.

Ignis places his hands on either side of the child’s head and leans in close, pressing his forehead to hers. When he touches her skin with his own, centered on the spot on his head, he immediately shudders at the touch of Starscourge within this girl’s body. 

_ Heal,  _ his heart begs him. It cries  _ heal- _

And for once-

He obeys.

In a flash, his vision changes, and he sees the world for what it truly is.

His golden light rises up from his heart like a wave, full of mercy and wrath. Divine fury. Ignis feels it too; he lets the light send warmth through his veins, suffusing him with the rage of and Oracle whose people are suffering.

_ Heal- _

The light lashes out, reaching towards the girl he’s holding, and it wraps itself around the darkness it finds there.

In the single shivering instant before the fragment of the Starscourge is consumed, it hangs suspended in his mind’s eye, staring back at him from the body of this child. It pulses poisonous red, exuding its miserable, ugly power.

Ignis stares.

Power?

The shivering, aching void in his heart reaches out for it, desperate for a companion in the midst of all of this loneliness.

What if he just-

“No,” he gasps aloud, and he hears himself say it, echoed a thousandfold down into the abyss in his heart where covenants and light had once lived.

And his golden light descends upon the Starscourge, burning it into oblivion. It twists and struggles in his grasp, and distantly he hears the child gasp, so he focuses harder. It must be working. It must.

And then it’s gone.

Ignis leans back from the child, releasing her carefully. Her presence does not make him recoil anymore. Healed. Healed. Healed.

“He did it,” someone whispers behind him, and he smiles.

He removes his gloves, exposing more of himself to the poison in the air.

“Bring me the next one,” he says, eyes still closed, and he can feel the light dancing across his fingers.

Another person stumbles into his grasp, and his vision flares gold again.

Again he sees the Starscourge.

Again the desperate part of him reaches out and whispers of how easy it would be to just take it, and welcome it, and  _ consume- _

_ No. _

_ Heal. _

He forces the Starscourge to submit to its fate.

It burns. It burns. It burns.

Good.

As this fragment fades into nothingness and his patient’s breathing eases, Ignis finds himself panting for breath, holding on tightly to the face of the formerly afflicted. The void in his heart feels deeper right now, reminding him of how much he used to be able to give.

Prompto’s voice comes to him through a fog of gold. “Hey. Ignis, buddy. You can stop if you want.”

Ignis grits his teeth. His blood is roaring in his ears. “I’m quite fine. I can do this.”

_ They can’t know that it hurts me. _

That’ll lower the public’s morale, whether they know he’s the Oracle or not. He cannot show that the defenders of the light struggle to wield it. He will not shatter the faith of the masses.

There are more people to be healed.

It might be one person. It might be five. He’s not sure how much of himself he expends in order to destroy all traces of the plague from its victims, and he’s not sure it matters. The people are what matter. This golden light will regenerate; it still belongs to him, and has not yet been bartered away in order to gain the favor of one god or another. He tries not to think about the cost, though, and instead focuses on eliminating the Starscourge here in this tent and in these people.

_ Heal,  _ his heart begs, and he knows he cannot stop.

He turns, eyes still closed, focusing on the fragments of Starscourge he feels in the world around him, determined to burn as much of it from existence as he can. He reaches out, closing his hand around the slender wrist of the next of the afflicted.

“Um.”

Ignis pauses before he does battle with this trace of the plague. The voice comes to him quietly, echoing through the large, empty chambers of his heart until it reaches him in the center, surrounded by golden light. It’s familiar.

He opens his eyes.

Prompto blinks down at him, eyes wide. “Ignis?” he asks quietly, and his voice cracks around the word.

_ Oh. _

His mind shutters immediately, and the calming warmth of his golden light fades from his limbs, retreating into his heart where it hides from the weight of the world. Ignis stares up at Prompto and finds himself at a loss for words. All he can think about is barcodes, and of the familiar chilling darkness in the back of his mind, and of Ravus saying  _ a reminder of home. _

There’s something in there that he’s not sure he wants to unpack.

So he carefully neutralizes his expression, pats Prompto on the hand, and says, “Thank you for being at my side, Prompto. I appreciate your help.” 

Prompto’s violet-blue eyes flash with panic. “Uh. Yeah. No problem, Iggy,” he mumbles, and he casts his gaze to his feet.

Ignis sits backwards on his heels, looking around. His vision swims with darkness, but it’s not the type that he loathes. Now that he’s back to himself, he’s all too aware of how exhausted he truly is. At the center of his heart, his golden light shrinks further, depleted by his efforts.

“That’s the extent of what I can do,” he says to the room in general. “I hope I was able to ease some of your pains.”

“You must be a Messenger,” a woman says in awe, “sent by Lady Lunafreya herself.”

Ignis smiles. “Something like that.” He tugs his gloves back on, hoping that the extra leather will help mask how much his hands are shaking.

“Truly, though.” The woman catches him by the shoulder, 

“The Oracle cares for you all,” Ignis tells her quietly. “I can guarantee that.” On a sudden instinct, he reaches out and takes both of her hands in between his, holding them tightly. He doesn’t have much golden light to offer to her, but he offers the warmth of it instead, hoping that she will understand the truth of his power, if not the truth of his identity. The way that she sighs is indication enough that it worked. He smiles once more and moves on.

Or tries to, at least.

He realizes that he can’t muster the strength to stand.

“Prompto,” he says. “Could I have some aid, please?”

Prompto’s eyes flicker to him. For once, he’s missing his eagle-eyed focus, and he blinks a few times before truly looking at Ignis. “Uh. Yeah. ‘Course, Iggy,” he says quietly, and he offers his hand to Ignis, pulling him to his feet easily.

He shakes hands with a few more of the refugees, offering quiet benedictions and kind words when he can. He’s glad that he decided to put his gloves back on; otherwise, he’s not sure that he’d be able to handle the exposure to so many people. Not when they’ve been so bathed in the presence of Starscourge.

Hope follows them into the sunlight again, thanking them over and over again. Ignis accepts his gratitude with smiles and with a careful pat on the shoulder.

Even as they’re walking, Prompto won’t stop biting at his nails. 

“Prompto,” Ignis says. “Prompto, you’ll ruin your nails like that.”

No response. He doesn’t stop.

Ignis frowns. It’s been ages since Prompto’s fallen into that old habit, but it seems that his actions in the tent have set them off again. Through the exhaustion, he feels a pang of guilt.

They make their way back through the refugee encampment, not speaking beyond accepting the thanks of the citizens. Children, women, men...they’re all looking at him. They’re all happy to see him, though they know not who he is. 

Ignis ducks his head to hide the flush he can feel blooming on his face.

The two of them approach Gladio and Noct, who are locked in conversation with a couple of warrior-looking types. Or at least, they’re trying to be that. Their weapons look like rusted hand-me-downs or just repurposed farming equipment. Ignis doesn’t doubt they’ll need them: there are hardly enough lights here to fend off the daemons, and there are wild animals that prowl these woods.

Gladio frowns at Prompto, who’s isolated himself off to the side with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’s kicking at the dirt, tracing idle lines that probably don’t make any sense. “Hey, is he good?”

“Take him for a walk,” Ignis tells him quietly, laying a hand on his arm. “The healing process was...arduous for all of us. He needs some time away from this, and from me. Meet me back at the car when you’re ready.” He steps away from Gladio, nods once more to Hope and the rest of the refugees, and makes his way back into the forest.

“You’re not going alone,” Noct says.

“It seems like I am,” Ignis replies, not looking back. He summons his spear - not the Trident,  _ gods,  _ not the Trident - and uses it as support, resolutely, forging a path through the woods. He hopes he isn’t making 

Behind him, Noct mutters a quiet curse and comes after him, pushing his way past branches to catch up with him. It doesn’t take him much effort to do so; it’s not as if Ignis is trying to run any marathons. Ignis can feel him looking at him, but he stares ahead and keeps moving. The sooner he gets through this forest, the sooner he can sit down in the car and maybe take a nap or three.

“Hey, Ignis?”

“Hey, Noctis.”

“Now, that sounds weird coming from you.”

“Trying something new.” Ignis falters a bit, internally chastising himself when Noct has to step in and steady him. “I don’t think I like it either.”

Noct shrugs. “Maybe not for you.”

“Mm.”

“But really, Specs.”

“Yes?”

“About what Ravus said…”

Ignis ducks his head to avoid a branch, keeping his eyes turned down towards the ground. He doesn’t trust his body to recover on its own if he trips on something underfoot. “He said a lot of things, Noct. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About the covenants. Your calling.”

_ Ah. _

“That,” Ignis says noncommittally. “What of it, Noct?”

“Is it really going to kill you?”

He’s not really sure how to answer that one. To start, he’s not even sure of what the covenants will do to him. 

“You don’t deserve to die.”

_ Neither do you. _

Ignis bows his head. “Thank you for thinking that, Noct. But I assure you, I will be quite all right.”

“Just not right now, huh?”

“Noct.”

“Don’t act like you don’t feel anything. You look dead on your feet, Specs. You shouldn’t have done so much.”

Ignis sets his jaw. “I did what I had to. My duty, Noct. We both have callings we must fulfill. If this is what we must endure in the line of duty, then so be it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“We don’t have to. We simply must do it.” That is their calling. Act on faith. Trust in fate. Bring the world out of darkness.

Noct falls silent at his side. Ignis had thought he’d at least express his displeasure again, but it seems he’s decided to internalize it this time. “I’m driving,” he finally says as they emerge from the trees.

“Thank the gods; I was about to ask,” Ignis sighs, and he gets into the Regalia’s back seat, sinking into the leather and going boneless. Now that he’s off his feet, all he can think about is how tired he is, and how even his bones seem to ache. 

“Told you you did too much.”

“Noct,” Ignis sighs, cracking an eye open to glare at him, but he falters when he sees the concern in his starlight-blue eyes. He closes his mouth and eyes once more, abandoning the fight. Maybe Noct is right after all. 

Gladio and Prompto emerge from the woods a few minutes later. Prompto slides into the passenger seat, subdued but clearly back with his focus. He still isn’t saying anything, but when Ignis glances at him, he doesn’t see any confused haze clouding his expression anymore. That’s a small victory, at least. Gladio gets into his own traditional seat and pulls out two books this time. He offers one to Ignis. “Up for some light reading? Been a while since you were in the back seat.”

Ignis shakes his head, feeling like he’s moving through molasses when he does it. “I’m afraid I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Get some sleep, then. We’ll wake you when we get there.” Gladio gives him an encouraging smile, and that’s enough to reassure Ignis.

He dozes for the first hour or so of the car ride, too exhausted to keep his eyes open. Flashes of dreams meet him when he submits to the darkness of exhaustion. He can hardly remember them, and he’s not sure he cares to anyway. All he can parse from them is the threat of fire and darkness and the feeling of cold steel in his back.

They aren’t pleasant dreams.

When he wakes, he takes some time to look around at the scenery. He’s not sure if they’ve crossed into Cleigne yet; if they have, he must have slept through them passing through one of the imperial blockades. Formal blockade now, he supposes, with the empire retreating from the area. All the same, Eos shines under the midday sun, revealing water-filled craters and arching stone formations. In the distance, something splits the earth that Ignis thinks might be the legendary Taelpar Crag. Beyond that, far to the west, the twisted, smoking mass of Ravatogh looms above them all.

Ignis marvels at it, awestruck. Even from this distance, the sacred living mountain fills him with a sense of reverence. They say the Infernian was laid to rest there. 

Or forced, if he factors in the fact that the gods were at war.

He hopes he never faces the wrath of the astrals like that.

Noct keeps looking in the rearview mirror at him. Ignis feels the weight of his reflected gaze. He tolerates the glances right up until the car swerves just a bit too hard.

“Noct,” he chides. “Eyes on the road, if you would, please.”

“I’m watching the road.”

“No, you’re not,” Prompto says, squirming in his seat. He gets up on his knees, turning to cross his arms over the back of his seat. He blinks at Gladio, eyes shining violet in the sunlight. “Gladio, what even is that?”

“Poetry,” Gladio replies without even looking up. 

“Again?”

“It’s different than the last book.”

Ignis checks his phone. The news has been quiet lately, reporting only the intrusion at Aracheole Stronghold and the movements of the Niflheim troops out of Duscae. He’d been hoping for some news of Ravus or Lunafreya, but it seems as if the imperial media knows what he wants and has decided to deny him. There’s not even a mention of Ravus being at the stronghold in the first place. Was it an unplanned visit, then?

He’s not sure he likes the radio silence on the Nox Fleurets, especially when they’re two of the most important figures in imperial hands. It reeks of a plot, and of someone who knows that news of Ignis’s siblings would be welcome. Ardyn Izunia, surely. Ignis shivers at the mere thought of him.

“Ebony?” Prompto asks, passing one to him before Ignis even has a chance to look up. His voice is pleasant enough to shake Ignis from his thoughts.

“Seems I have no choice,” Ignis chuckles, but he takes it anyway and cracks it open. He takes a sip and nearly groans; gods, how long has it been since he’s had one of these? “Thank you, Prompto. You’re a godsend.”

“Hey, speaking of. I think we did good back there, y’know? Helped some people.”

“Indeed.”

Gladio glances up at Ignis. “You handled the recognition well, Iggy.”

Ignis shrugs. “Merely what I had to do. As it turns out, it’s hard to be the religious authority of the world while being incognito.”

“I can only imagine,” Noct drawls from up front. Prompto flicks him on the ear, and Noct slaps him away with a good-natured  _ fuck you  _ that draws chuckles from all of them.

It’s nice.

It’s another hour until conversation starts up again. 

Prompto stops playing with his camera and sighs, “Wait till you see the tunnel, Iggy.”

Ignis raises his can of Ebony in acknowledgement, leaning his head out of the car to search for the tunnel of which Prompto’s speaking. All he can see is the cliffs that mark the edge of Taelpar Crag. It seems awfully unsafe to build a city on the walls of the Crag, but the residents of Lestallum must have found a way. Ignis is eager to see how they’ve managed it. “Is it far from here?”

“Is that your way of asking if we’re there yet, Specs?”

“Noct, I’d do nothing of the sort.”

Noct snorts. “It’s close. Don’t worry.”

“Like...really close,” Prompto adds. “Look at the cliffs up ahead.”

They’ve been racing along an overpass that crosses one of the lowlands, heading towards the Crag. The ground splits open to mark the beginning of the earth’s divine wound, crisscrossed with blue tendrils of glassy stone. On one side, the lowlands continue. But the other side is far higher, with stone walls that rise up hundreds of feet. Carved into that stone face is the dark entrance to a tunnel. Noct makes a turn onto a road that takes them right towards it.

Ignis leans forward. “And this leads directly to Lestallum?”

“Yup. Hold on tight.”

“I’m on the edge of my seat, Prompto.”

Prompto flips him off with a grin and settles back into his seat. “You’ll see.”

The opening to the tunnel comes closer, closer, closer-

And then the world goes dark.

Immediately upon entering the tunnel, the sunlight is all but blocked out, only filtering in light from between the columns that are carved into the edge of the cliff side. It creates an incredible parallax effect, and Ignis watches, mesmerized, as they speed through this eerie pathway in the middle of the day. This is nothing like the bridges or underground highways of Insomnia; it’s something far more raw and real and natural, and Ignis can’t help but be awed.

The columns race past, one after the other. Ignis takes his glasses off, folding them in a pocket of his jacket so the wind won’t whip them away.

“Check this out,” Noct says, and he steps on the gas, urging the Regalia faster, faster, faster-

In any other circumstance, Ignis would order him to slow down or stop or switch drivers, but all he can do now is lean out of the car, letting his hair whip past his face, and marvel at the way the columns blur together with the landscape beyond, speeding past them as the wind howls through the tunnel. 

It’s magnificent.

Over the sound of the wind, Noctis laughs too, and that’s a music all its own.

And then they burst from the tunnel, and the world explodes with color and heat and light.

In his surprise, all Ignis can say is “Oh!”

Prompto looks over his shoulder and grins. “Welcome to Lestallum, dude.”

“Goodness,” Ignis breathes. He takes one of his gloves off and sticks his bare hand out into the rushing air beyond the car. Though the wind is blowing as they drive through the streets, the air remains muggy and warm. “I never knew a place could be so hot,” he breathes. Even in the middle of summer, Insomnia had never gotten this warm. This place reaches a whole new level of temperature he’d never thought possible.

“That’s the Meteor’s effect,” Gladio tells him. “Even though the big one disappeared with Titan, there are huge shards here in the canyons. The Exineris plant sits above some of it. Hot, isn’t it?”

“Rather sultry, yes.”

“Trust you to use a word like ‘sultry’, Iggy.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it, Gladio, what with your poetry and all.”

“Hilarious.”

Ignis smiles and turns his face back towards the city, taking in all the sights. There are carts all around, with vendors selling food and souvenirs and other goods Ignis doesn’t even know if he can name. He has to go to all of them. He’s going to. “I have to go to all of those,” he announces.

“We can,” Gladio chuckles. “You’re eager.”

“I’m amazed.”

“Never thought I’d see Iggy smile like that,” Prompto says, looking over his shoulder. “Happiness looks good on you, man.”

Noct smiles in the rear view mirror, small and private, and pulls the car off the main road, heading down into a large parking lot a level below the city. “Here we are.” He turns off the ignition once he parks the car - quite well, Ignis must admit - and gets out of the car. He stretches languorously, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it into the car between Gladio and Ignis.

Gladio snatches it up and throws it right back. “That goes in your luggage. You think people won’t steal a thing like that?”

“In this heat? Doubt it.”

“Don’t risk it, man,” Prompto advises, vaulting out of the car. He bends and touches his toes, giving a loud sigh of contentment before straightening back up. “Let’s never drive again.”

“Let’s never ride chocobos again, then.”

“Oh, just because you can’t read your poetry on the back of a chocobo-”

“Can we  _ please  _ not do this now?” Ignis begs. “We’re all here to relax. Let’s act like it.”

Gladio and Prompto make matching noises of assent, wandering away from the car. Crisis averted.

“Shouldn’t you put the roof up?” Ignis asks, concerned.

Shrugging, Noct says, “Nah. It doesn’t rain here.”

“Imagine that.” After the near-constant storming in Duscae, he can’t imagine that a place in Cleigne would have the same tendency towards sunlight as wide-open Leide. But the heat in Lestallum is oppressive already, surrounding him in what must be the constant radiation from the meteorshard upon which it sits.

Noct comes up to Ignis’s door and opens it for him. “Fine to stand up?” he asks, holding out his hand. 

“How chivalrous of you,” Ignis comments drily, but he takes Noct’s hand anyway.

“Royal etiquette,” Noct says by way of answering, helping Ignis out of the car. He carefully steadies Ignis with a light hand to Ignis’s back, watching his face carefully. “You good to walk, Specs?”

Ignis nods, not willing to admit just how shaky he was when he first put pressure on his feet. The long drive had helped him regain enough of his strength, though, that he doesn’t wobble for long. Noct’s hand on his back helps too. He waves him off after a moment, though, taking hesitant steps out into the sunlight.

“So?” Noct asks. “What d’you think?”

“It’s beautiful!” he says, turning in a circle with his face turned up towards the sun. “Absolutely incredible!”

It’s nothing at all like Insomnia. There are no steel skyscrapers or long, elegant highways through the sky. No Wall glistens overhead, and no Citadel looms in the distance from any perspective. Lestallum is low and hot and bright, full of old cars and young people. 

Ignis loves it immediately.

He turns to his left, and the great maw of Taelpar Crag waits below, ringed by a high-walled overlook. To the right, the city blooms, and all around there’s the sound of music and work. This city is alive. 

He breathes in the fresh air and all of its scents and asks, “Where’s Iris?”

“I left her at the Leville with Talcott and Jared. She can wait. With the empire retreating, she should be fine. We can go meet them whenever. Actually,” Gladio says, and his eyes light up, “we can go to the market. You’d love it, Iggy. They’ve got foods from all over Eos. Maybe we can make a meal for everyone.”

“You mean  _ I  _ can,” Ignis corrects with a smile, and already his mind conjures up the image of a quaint little market for this bustling, small city on a cliff.

“I can help,” Gladio protests.

“Oh, surely,” Ignis teases. He makes his way up the stairs from the parking lot, heading for the street level. A woman in shining coveralls slips past him on the stairway with a friendly smile. Her arms are bare, though, since her coveralls are hanging undone down to her waist, letting her bask in the sun. It’s probably a welcome respite from the heat. Ignis returns her smile and continues on his way, trying to parse out why she would dare wear such heavy clothing in this weather.

Prompto leans over his shoulder once they pass her. “Power plant worker,” he explains. “The ladies are the workers here. Cool, right?”

“Very much so.” He’d read about Lestallum in his studies, of course, and several dignitaries from the area had made their way to Insomnia for galas or meetings or audiences with the king, but this is the first he’s seeing of the full extent of Lestallum’s societal structure. From what he can see, it’s a well-oiled machine. Perhaps he can sit down with one of these women to ask about some of the intricacies of their work. Cindy might have a friend here that she could point them towards; he makes a mental note to give her a call later.

It takes him a few more steps to realize that he’s the one at the front of their little band, bringing them between carts towards the main thoroughfare of the city. It seems awfully backwards. Ignis turns to them. “I hope you all know that I don’t know where I’m going.”

“You made it look so convincing, though,” Noct teases, and he takes the lead instead, ushering the rest of them across the street. That’s another thing that’s curious about this place: the cars just stop if someone crosses their path. In Insomnia, you risked death by stepping onto the tarmac if a light was telling you not to. Out here in continental Lucis, they seem to have no such qualms, implicitly trusting motorists not to kill pedestrians. It’s a refreshing mindset for sure, and Ignis appreciates not having to fear for his life.

There are a few restaurants that Prompto points out, and Gladio nearly drags them to the Cup Noodle truck, but they delve deeper into the city, leading Ignis to the market. Sounds and smells start to filter into his awareness the more they walk, and Ignis walks a little faster, eager to explore. He bounds up a few more shallow steps, heedless of how tired he is, and emerges into a wide open plaza in the middle of Lestallum.

It’s  _ huge.  _

Oh, this market is better than anything they had in Insomnia.

It’s better than anything in all of Eos.

“Incredible,” he breathes.

There are so many smells that he doesn’t even know where to start analyzing them all.

He thinks someone might even be selling Galahdian skewers further on, but he can’t be sure. Regardless, he wanders further into the market, trusting the others to trail after him. He’s not going to wait around for them. They’ve already seen this market, and now Ignis gets to experience all of it all at once. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s a stand with its table piled high with spices. Ignis stocks up on what he knows they’re missing, and he picks up a couple more things that they’ve not put in their food since leaving Insomnia. He can indulge; he’s had a rough few weeks. They all have. He’s determined to make them something truly special tonight. Maybe the Leville even has a real kitchen he can use. While he loves his cookware in his camp set, he’s missed the luxury of a place of his own. Maybe Lestallum is where he can truly catch his breath.

He wanders from stall to stall, pointing out various things to his friends as he sees fit. There’s a whole stand dedicated to books and historical artifacts that Gladio would love, and there’s a Ignis grabs Noct by the wrist before he can stop himself, pointing to a stand with a tired-looking man watching over a collection of lures.

And then they get to the fruit stand.

Ignis isn’t sure what makes him give the stall a second glance, but he slows his steps anyway, smiling briefly in greeting to the vendor. They have plenty of fruits; he doesn’t need to be here. But something in his mind keeps him here, urging him towards a display of dark purple-blue berries that sit in baskets on one end of the stand. He stares at them. “These look familiar,” he murmurs, reaching out to the display, but he catches himself just before actually touching the merchandise. He looks up at the vendor. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t recognize this fruit. Is it Lucian?”

The vendor shakes his head. “Imported, sir, if you please.” He has a pleasant accent, vaguely imperial but without much inflection to give Ignis an idea of the region. “Ulwaat berries from the heart of Tenebrae.”

_ Oh. _

“From Tenebrae?” he repeats.

“Indeed, sir.” The vendor raises an eyebrow. “You sound as if you are familiar. It is pleasant to hear a bit of home here in the center of Lucis.”

“A bit of home,” Ignis echoes. “Yes. Ah. Ulwaat berries. Could they perhaps be used for baking?”

The vendor smiles widely. “Quite right, sir! They are excellent in pastries!”

_ Pastries. _

Dare he hope?

“Noct,” he breathes, turning to find him.

“Right here.” And he is. His eyes are wide too, and he points to the berries. “Hey. D’you think those could be the ones? From the-”

“Pastries from home?” Ignis finishes. He smiles. “I think so.”

Noct’s face lights up into a grin. “We’ve gotta buy a million of them, Specs.”

“We have funds, right, Gladio?” Ignis asks, turning to face him. His eyes are wide, he knows, but he can’t contain his excitement. “Gladio, I’m just going to buy some of it.”

Gladio looks from the vendor, to Noct, to Ignis, and back again. “This means that much to you?” he asks, but even in the words there’s the hint of a sigh that means he’s already basically said yes.

“They’re home, Gladio. Fruits from home.” His first home. Tenebrae of windy mountaintops and swaying blossoms and oranges and ulwaat fruits. The smell alone nearly brings him to tears.

Gladio’s eyes soften. “Yeah. Of course, Iggy. Go crazy.”

“Thank you, Gladio,” Ignis says. “Truly. Thank you.” His heart warms at the thought of baking up something from home. He turns back to the vendor. “I’ll take a basket, if you don’t mind, sir.”

“A whole basket?” The vendor’s voice rises in pitch, accent turning even more musical. “By all means, my good friend! May you enjoy a taste of home!” He holds his hand out for the requisite amount of gil, and Gladio places the funds in his palm. The vendor nods to him, pockets the change, and loads ulwaat berries so high in the basket that Ignis fears he’ll lose some. “Some extra, for a fellow Tenebraen.” He winks.

Ignis smiles. “Thank you so much, sir.”

He holds the basket close to his chest, and the frigid covenant in his chest rings with approval.

_ Remember who you are. _

Oracle. Son of Tenebrae. Prince.

Ignis Nox Fleuret.

Home. It’s home, right here in his arms.

Ignis can’t remember the last time he felt so happy.

“C’mon, let’s head to the Leville. We can go back to the market once we meet up with the others.”

Prompto gives a thumbs up. “You got it!”

Ignis nods and follows wordlessly, still holding on tightly to his basket of ulwaat berries. Gladio and Prompto lead them out of the market, letting the sounds of vendors hawking their wares fade away into the distance. Ignis misses the hustle and bustle of it already.

“How many pastries are we gonna eat tonight, Specs?” Noct asks, and there’s that honest smile again. The real one. 

Gods, Ignis has missed seeing him like that.

He returns the smile, and for once it takes hardly any effort to muster it. “Hundreds,” he promises. “Maybe this time they’ll be just right.” Ulwaat berries. Yes, that sounds right. Ulwaat tarts? Is that what they had been called?

“I’ll eat thousands.”

“I’m exercising my authority as Tenebraen heir to ordain that  _ I  _ am the one who gets the majority of the tarts.”

Noct counters, “And I’m exercising my authority as your sworn liege to ordain that you give me as many of those tarts as I want.”

“Keep dreaming, Noct.”

“We’d better get some of those!” Prompto says. “Ignis, your cooking is  _ heavenly,  _ dude. No pun intended.”

Ignis chuckles. “You can have some tarts, Prompto. I’m no monster.” He adds, “Iris and Talcott can as well. I know Talcott loves sweets.”

“He does,” Gladio agrees. “Thanks, Iggy. He’ll love it. Poor kid’s probably going stir crazy cooped up in the Leville.”

“He could use some excitement, then.”

They lapse into an easy silence, meandering through the streets of Lestallum with no particular amount of haste. It reminds Ignis of their time back in Insomnia, when they’d walk to the arcade after they were done with school and meetings. Noct and Prompto would take the lead, cracking jokes and taunting each other about how much they were going to demolish each other’s high score. Gladio and Ignis Would trail behind, discussing the day’s meetings or the plans for Gladio’s next tattoo appointment.

This isn’t quite the same, but it’s close enough.

The wind blows in off the Crag, bringing the scent of fresh, wild air untouched by mortals. 

The thought of Taelpar Crag sends a chill down Ignis’s spine. He remembers what Cor had said so long ago at the Norduscaen Blockade about the thing that lives in its depths. Remembers him saying  _ faith is meant to be tested. _

He frowns.

Somehow the memory is ominous enough on its own. He doesn’t like that it’s coming to him now. He doesn’t like the mood it’s put him in.

It’s somber in this part of the city.

Away from the hustle and bustle of the market, there are very few people around here. Those that are seem more nervous than the ones just a block or two away, holding their bags close and watching the four of them nervously out of the corner of their eyes. One woman sees them and holds her child closer, ushering him away.

Ignis lowers his basket of ulwaat berries to his side, blinking into the sun. Its light seems colder here.

“Something’s wrong,” Gladio says, and he starts running.

Ignis exchanges a worried look with Noct and Prompto and gives chase, sprinting across the plaza after Gladio. As he passes a radio set up beside a fountain, it drones,  _ “In the wake of the unrest in Lestallum, citizens are urged to stay inside and report any anti-imperial sentiments to their nearest officer. In other news-” _

Ignis runs faster.

He follows the others up a set of shallow stairs and into the airy lobby of an old hotel. The clerk looks up at them in surprise, eyes widening in recognition, but says nothing beyond that. Gladio stands in the center of the lobby with his fists clenched at his sides. He looks around, shoulders tense with waiting. Ignis comes up behind him, keeping his distance out of respect for the raw power coiled in Gladio’s muscles.

“Guys?”

They look up.

Iris Amicitia stands at the top of the stairs.

In the dark black and red of her uniform, she looks more like nobility than Ignis has ever seen. The image is ruined, though, by the tears in her eyes and the bloodied redness of her knuckles.

Gladio steps forward. “Iris?” he asks, and his voice could threaten a storm.

She shakes her head and bursts into tears.

“Fuck,” Gladio swears, and he bounds up the stairs three at a time, wrapping Iris up in his arms. She buries her face in his chest, holding herself as close to him as possible.

“Gods,” Ignis murmurs. “What could have gone wrong?”

Gladio, still holding on to his sister, gestures to the rest of them. “Come upstairs. Let’s talk somewhere private.” He ushers them all upstairs and down a long hallway before they can make much more of a scene, not letting go of his little sister the whole time. Ignis, Noctis, and Prompto trail behind, and Ignis’s heart won’t stop pounding.

None of them point out the bloodstain on the stairs.

Ignis knows they all see it. He knows they’re all expecting the worst.

Inside one of the hotel rooms - Ignis hardly bothers to look around at the place, caught up as he is in a mild panic - Gladio sits down with Iris on a small couch. The rest of them file in and wordlessly take their spots in various armchairs. Ignis sinks into his, waiting for the worst.

Noct looks at Gladio and nods. He’s giving up control of this conversation, turning it over to Gladio. It’s a wise choice; this is Gladio’s sister, after all.

Gladio returns the nod and turns to Iris. “What happened?” he demands, and though he’s gentle with her, Ignis can still hear the looming threat of retribution in his voice.

Iris shakes her head, wiping ineffectually at her eyes. “It’s - it’s Jared.”

_ Jared.  _ Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen the Amicitias’ butler or his grandson since getting here. His heart sinks. He leans forward and places a hand on Iris’s shoulder, sending a small bit of his golden light to her. It taps his already flagging reserves of power, but for Iris he’s willing to give up some comfort. “Iris,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. We’re here now. Could you tell us what happened?”

“Someone came to the Leville,” she says. “An imperial.”

“Who?” Prompto asks, and Ignis hears the other questions behind that one.  _ Was it Ardyn? Was it Ravus? Was it someone with a barcode? _

“He was an officer. Brigadier general. Caligo Ulldor.” Those words fall easily from her lips with the militant efficiency of a born and bred Amicitia giving intel, but then she falters. “He came to the Leville not too long ago, looking for Noct.” She takes a shaking breath. “Jared intercepted him, and he tried to stop him from getting to me, but then he-”

“Iris.” Gladio, strong and unyielding.

“He killed him!” she whispers, and she chokes out the beginning of a sob. “He pushed him, and Jared wasn’t ready for it, and he  _ fell.” _

Noct stands up, shoving the chair out behind him. It falls over with a crack of wood on the floor, but nobody moves to pick it up. Noct starts pacing around the room, footfalls slow and heavy and purposeful. Ignis can see the way his fists are clenched at his sides.

For a moment, he fears that Noct will bring the wrath of the gods down upon Lestallum.

Instead, Noct sheds weapons, seeming to lose his tight control over the armory. An ice bomb drops to the ground and cracks a bit, spilling frost across the floor as it rolls along the hardwood. Ignis picks up the freezing canister when it rolls to a stop at his feet, and he closes it carefully, heedless of the intense chill. It doesn’t harm him.

“Hey,” Gladio says softly to Iris. “Let me take a look at your hands.”

“It was his armor,” she says, letting Gladio inspect her knuckles. “I...I tried to stop him. I didn’t have any weapons, though, so I - I  _ tried,  _ Gladdy, but I couldn’t stop him, and- and-” Her voice rises with every word, turning into the high whine of someone on the edge of sobbing.

Gladio bows his head over Iris’s hands, holding on to them tightly. “You did the best you could.”

“I wasn’t  _ enough.” _

Noct makes a low, furious sound, and the air crackles with static again. He turns to Iris, eyes flashing with thunderstorms, and says, “None of this is your fault, Iris.”

Iris looks up at him. It breaks Ignis’s heart to see that she doesn’t even have the energy to look awed by him. Did Niflheim take her joy as well? “I should have been better,” she says. “I should have been a Shield like Gladio or my- my  _ dad-” _

That makes Noct nearly growl once more, sending reverberations of his fury through the air. A dagger falls from his open palm in a flash, landing point-down in the carpet. It stands there, shivering in its fight against gravity, before dissolving back into the armory. 

Iris hunches in over herself, sobbing once more.

“I-” Noct stops and seems to collect himself; he looks down at his hands, not making eye contact with any of them. Whatever he does, it seems to help: the smell of ozone fades from the air, and the room stops crackling with static. He breathes out in a sigh, then shakes his head. “I need to get out of here.”

“Noct.”

“I’m no use to you guys here.” Noct pauses, and then bitterly adds, “Clearly.” He steps back, heading for the door. Still, his footsteps ring heavily on the floor.

“Don’t go far,” Gladio warns. “If they see you’re here-”

“You think I don’t know that?” Noct asks, and again there’s that snap of electricity in the air, unbound for just a moment before its energy recoils back into him. He bites out, “I’m sorry,” before storming out of the room.

Gladio pinches at the bridge of his nose, breathing out a shuddering sigh. Ignis’s heart aches for him. “Where’s Talcott?” he asks at last, low and weary. 

“In his room. He hasn’t left. Maybe Noct can talk to him later or something. Or you, Gladdy. He knows you’re a safe person.”

Gladio nods, pressing his lips together. “You two are staying in my room tonight, okay? No arguments.”

Iris just nods. “Yeah. Of course.” She wipes more tears from her cheeks. 

They don’t end up having a big meal.

There aren’t any pastries.

Ignis still doesn’t even know if there’s a kitchen he can use. Instead, he’s stuck out of sight, waiting out the storm.

From his window, Ignis can see Prompto make his way carefully out of the hotel and into the cooling night air. He comes back some time later with an armful of small boxes that look like takeout; Ignis listens for his footsteps up the stairs -  _ don’t think of the blood, don’t -  _ and hears him going from door to door in their stretch of the hallway. First Gladio’s voice meets him, and then Noct’s. Ignis opens his own door before Prompto gets the chance to knock.

“Oh. Hey, Iggy.”

“Prompto.” He takes the package that Prompto’s offering; it smells unfamiliar. Perhaps it’s local cuisine. “This is too kind.”

“Least I could do. After I shut down, Iggy…”

“Not your fault,” Ignis interrupts firmly. “Okay?”

Prompto’s eyes find his warily; there’s a bit of relief in his face. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Thank you, Prompto,” he says, and he means it. “Get some rest, though. Don’t run yourself ragged.”

Prompto nods; there are dark circles beneath his eyes that weren’t there when they all woke up this morning. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I promise, Iggy.” He steps back from the door with a little half-hearted wave, and Ignis bids him a quiet goodnight before shutting the door.

They all have their own rooms tonight; Ignis thinks they all could use their space, and Gladio had said they could afford the cost for the night. Besides, he’d said, if Nifs came knocking, they’ve spread out the chances of them finding a prince.

Ignis supposes he can’t argue with that logic, and he’s not sure he wants to after the day they’ve had. He’s not about to antagonize Gladio any further; his friend doesn’t deserve any more weight on his shoulders when they’re already so laden with duty and heartache.

So he sits quietly in his room, picking at the food that Prompto’s brought him, and he tries to think of a way to fix this. There’s not an easy fix, of course. He’s a healer, not a necromancer, and no amount of prayer can bring someone back from the dead. Though the food is good, it loses its taste after a few bites, and he sets it aside for when he can properly enjoy it. Eating just doesn’t feel right after all of this tragedy.

Of course they can’t save everyone, but he can’t help but realize that this was probably his fault. His fault for stopping to heal a crowd of strangers. His fault for holding them up. His fault for always running away for the sake of gods he hardly knows.

That’s faith, right?

His faith might have been what got Jared killed.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring out the window at the low lights of Lestallum, the moon, and the distant blue glow of Taelpar Crag. By all rights, this is a holy place, and no darkness has plagued his mind other than the passing presence of a magitek trooper. He can deal with those.

Maybe this would be a good time for prayer.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the divinity that lives in his heart, and speaks aloud. 

“I know you’re not supposed to save everyone,” he says, “and I know that you’re under no obligation to listen, but I just want-”

No.

He shakes his head. “Maybe that’s not the word. Sometimes I just hope that you’re listening, and that you are looking out for the people when I’m not around to save them.” He stares at his hands, and at the gloves that represent the burden of his calling. “I can’t help everyone at once,” he whispers, and he takes off the gloves, throwing them on his bedside table.

Silence.

He might have heard the bark of a dog, but he knows his dear friends well enough to know that it wasn’t either of them. Ignis sighs; he’s not sure what he expected. They’re not obligated to answer him in the way that he is bound to honor their wishes. But that’s faith, he supposes. 

He buries his face in his bare hands.

A quiet knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. It’s so tentative that he nearly ignores it, mistaking it for ambient noise from the world outside. But in the back of his mind, something gleams blue, and he follows its call, rising and placing his hand on the still-warm doorknob.

He opens the door.

“Noct,” he says.

“Ignis.”

He’s been crying.

Ignis says, tentatively this time, “Noct.” And then, carefully, “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I want space anymore,” Noct whispers, and he throws his arms around Ignis’s waist.

Ignis stands there for a moment, dumbfounded, not daring to touch. With a prince’s head against his chest, he’s not sure what to do. His mind panics, reminding him of every painfully neutral interaction they’ve had since Titan. This shouldn’t happen. This isn’t right.

But this is Noct hugging him, dampening his shirt with tears, and Ignis’s heart has always been louder than his mind.

So he holds Noct close, wrapping his arms around Noct’s back, and he closes his eyes.

“I kept telling myself that it’d be easier to be king if I stopped worrying so much about the Oracle,” Noct says quietly. “But now people just keep dying, and you keep getting hurt, and it’s all because of me, and - and-” He stops, breath hitching, and then whispers, “I just miss you like hell.”

_ Oh, Noct.  _ “I miss you too,” Ignis admits softly, and his heart aches to say it. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re alive.”

“But for how long?” Noct asks bitterly.

_ Not long enough. _

That’s not the right answer. “Long enough to make things right,” he promises. It’s close enough to the truth.

He kisses the top of Noct’s head. It’s a wild, desperate instinct, but he indulges it anyway. Nobody is here to instruct him otherwise. Only the gods can see him here, standing with the Chosen King wrapped up in his arms.

It feels right.

He buries his face in Noct’s hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and petrichor.

“We’re going to kill them all,” Noct swears, and his voice could shake the earth.

The words hang in the still, silent Lestallum heat, vibrating long after the sound of them has faded to nothingness. 

“We will,” Ignis agrees, because Noctis is his king and he’s not quite sure he’d want to ever refuse him.

He stares at the ulwaat berries on his bedside table, lit by the moonlight, and thinks that they can wait.

There’s work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [triplehelix](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com) if you want to chat! :)


	14. fort vaullery.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis follows the path of justice.

He dreams that night, lying down in a bed that’s far larger than the one crammed into the camper at Wiz Chocobo Post. His weary bones ache, and he lets himself sink ever deeper into the mattress.

He’d been hoping that dreams wouldn’t disturb him tonight, but the gods don’t grant him that mercy. Instead, they stir up memories of earlier that night, bathed in starlight and the blue tint of the dreamscape.

_ “Think we can see them better from beyond the city lights?” Noct asks, staring up at the sky. _

_ Ignis hums in consideration. “For sure. Out on the sea, there’ll be no lights for miles around. Just the stars.” _

_ Noct nods. His eyes are still a little bloodshot, maybe, from tears, but the lights of Lestallum only make the blue in them brighter. “Just us,” he says quietly, and that’s the last they say for a while. _

_ They stare at the sky and hope for stars. _

When Ignis opens his eyes, he finds himself smiling. It was a pleasant memory amid all of this grief. They’d gotten a moment to find that easy quiet again. They’d lost that after Titan, and all of those silent conversations had been lost along with it. It pains him that so much heartache was what led them here, but all the same he cherishes the memory of the two of them on the balcony, watching the stars.

For a moment, it’d almost been like before. 

Sleep still tugs at him, though, and he lets it take him, still trying to imagine the way the lights had reflected in Noct’s eyes.

The memory is different this time.

The memory is wrong.

_ He’s barely looking at the stars. _

_ Noct is close enough to touch, if only one of them moves. _

_ Ignis hopes that Noct will move. _

_ “Ignis,” Noct breathes, and he leans closer, gaze flickering scarlet. _

_ Ignis steps back. _

_ That’s not how Noct’s eyes look. _

_ Flames reflect in his eyes instead of starlight. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. _

_ “Noct?” he stammers, but Noctis stares silently with a gaze half made of fire. _

_ And when Ignis looks down at himself, he’s burning. _

_ The pain is what hits him first: searing agony, spreading outward from his heart and coursing through his veins. It does not char his skin; instead, it consumes him from the inside. The next thing is the smell: sickly sweetness charred and mangled, like innocence consumed. Sylleblossoms, burning. _

_ “Ignis?” Noct asks, face still impassive. _

_ He opens his mouth to reply, but there’s no voice in his throat; no breath in his lungs. There’s nothing left for him to give to Noct. He can’t even scream. Only the fire. Only the fire. Only- _

He wakes, gasping for air.

For once, it’s not even one of the nightmares that leaves him in a cold sweat. In the miserable heat of Lestallum, all he can do is lie here and be reminded of the magnitude of his burning. Ignis breathes through his nose, trying to steady himself, and has to force his heart back into rhythm. It stutters and leaps in his chest, disobedient and scared.

Something nudges his foot; he moves his gaze from the ceiling to the end of the bed, and stares right at Noct, who’s curled at the foot of the bed, fast asleep.

Oh. He’d forgotten that Noct had stayed.

His heart slows a bit. Okay. He’s safe. Noct is safe. Nobody is burning.

Ignis carefully gets out of bed and turns on the lamp on the bedside table. He’s not going to bother throwing the blinds open; it’ll probably wake Noct. He pads into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. At least the tile floor of this room is cool enough to soothe him; it’s a welcome counterpoint to the miserable heat and the memory of flames. He peers in the mirror, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

So it’s been a long few days.

The strain of yesterday’s efforts has taken its toll on him for sure. His cheeks are hollower than he remembers them being Maybe this is what Ravus saw in him; in the time between their interactions, Ignis had given himself to two gods in exchange for their power. He doesn’t remember if he’d looked any less tired before the trial of Titan, though; he can hardly remember anything but this weariness.

He runs the tap, sticking his bare hands beneath the cool stream of water. He cups his palms together to catch the water and splashes it up onto his face. That helps, at least, though it doesn’t do anything for the darkness beneath his eyes. Maybe he should look into taking a potion or ether to accelerate the replenishment of his reserves of light.

Poking carefully at his hollowed cheeks, Ignis studies himself. At least he’s not due for a shave this time. Maybe a haircut is in order eventually, though maybe he could consider gelling it back. They certainly have enough to spare, if Ignis considers the veritable stockpile that Noct and Prompto have amassed. He rather likes this style, though, so he just settles for smoothing it over his forehead in a shining brown sheet. It overshadows some of the dark circles that’ve collected beneath his eyes, maybe. He can only hope.

After brushing his teeth, he makes his way back into the bedroom and begins getting dressed for the day. The sun is up, which means it’s at least eight. That thought still frustrates him; the sun should rise at six. He’s not sure when the change happened, and even that single fact is disturbing. Has he been unconscious during the death of the world?

He considers the laughing darkness in his dream from Galdin Quay, and frowns. Is this what Gentiana had warned him about? Is this the enemy that must be defeated?

His eyes slide over to focus on Noct. He’d been the one to stand against the darkness in the dream, alone with the host of the Lucii at his back. He will be critical, Ignis knows.

And then he’ll-

_ No. _

Ignis tries not to think about what comes after that.

As if sensing his gaze, Noct opens his eyes slowly, blinking at Ignis with a bit of confusion. “Where?” he asks groggily.

“My room. The Leville in Lestallum. You didn’t want to go back to yours.”

“Mm.” Noct closes his eyes and presses his face back into the bedspread, settling in. “Don’t think Gladio’s gonna be happy with that. We were supposed to split up.”

Ignis sighs. “You’re safest with your Crownsguard, Noct.”

“Then who’s protecting you?”

“You, I’d imagine.” Ignis reaches for his shoes.

Noct smiles a little bit. “Where’re you going?” he asks, blinking sleepily from the edge of the bed.

“Just a few errands. I won’t be long.” Ignis finishes tugging his shoes on. “At least get yourself to a pillow, Noct. For the gods’ sake.”

“Gods, schmods,” Noct mumbles, but he crawls up the length of the bed anyway. He buries his face in the pillow that Ignis has left behind, wrapping his arms around it like a lifeline. “Oranges,” he murmurs, and a single midnight-blue eye cracks open to meet Ignis’s gaze.

Ignis raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Oranges?” he repeats.

“Smells like oranges. Pillow. You.” Noct closes his eyes again and goes face first into the downy center of the pillow, effectively cutting himself off from the world. He curls up a bit, too, shirking the sheets to find comfort in the coolness of the open air. 

It is getting warm, after all. Ignis tugs at the collar of his shirt to straighten it, switches off the lamp beside the table, and quietly closes the door to his room as well as he can. Hopefully he didn’t end up disturbing Noct. He doesn’t hear anything from insides, at least.

Ignis heads downstairs, carefully stepping around the blood stain on the carpet.

Gladio sits in one of the armchairs in the lobby, thumbing through one of his books. He looks up as Ignis descends the staircase. “Where are you off to?” he asks.

“Out to run some errands,” Ignis replies, straightening his jacket carefully. “I’m the safest gamble as far as stealth goes. I blend right in.”

“Hm.” That seems to appease Gladio, so Ignis continues on his way to the door. “Oh hey, wait.” Ignis stops, and Gladio asks, “Where’s Noct? He wasn’t in his room.”

“He stayed in mine last night.”

Gladio gives a lopsided grin. “Of course.”

“Whatever you think that means, Gladiolus, you’re quite wrong,” Ignis snaps. “He was crying.”

“Was he?”

“He has feelings, you know.”

“Yeah, I could tell that he did when he nearly brought the Leville down on our heads.” Gladio picks at the corner of his page. “It’s not safe for you two to be in the same room. Not here.”

Ignis offers, “It would have been two of us against whoever tried to harm us.”

“Not the point, really, but whatever.” Gladio sighs. “I’ll wake him up. He’s in your bed?”

“Yes.” Ignis checks his pockets for his stash of gil; it wouldn’t be wise to pull it from the armiger in the middle of the market. “I’ll be back soon.”

“You’d better.”

Ignis gives him a reassuring smile and leaves the Leville.

He heads straight for the market. He supposes he’ll blend right in.

After all, no officer looks twice at a man in imperial white.

His skin crawls at the thought.  _ Imperial.  _ Others clearly think the same way too, because some people wearing black shawls glare at him as he slips through the streets. One man spits a Galahdian curse in his direction, and a woman with the swords of Bahamut tattooed along her collarbone shoves him out of her way. Ignis ducks his head, accepting their wrath, and hurries onward. This isn’t a fight he needs to start. In a way, he is responsible, after all. He is part of the reason why imperial wrath has come to Lestallum, and he purposely wears a color that now represents Niflheim oppression. He benefits from the empire’s occupation of Lestallum, standing on the backs of his people.

The feeling from Aracheole Stronghold returns now: shame.

For the first time in a long time, he yearns for the comfort of Lucian black.

So he slinks through the alleyways, chin down, hoping that he exudes the full extent of his guilt. 

It is good indeed to see a familiar face when he enters the market. A few of the shops are still closed this early in the morning, but the Tenebraen vendor with the ulwaat berries has already set out his wares for the day. He looks up when he hears Ignis approaching, and raises his hand in greeting with a wide smile.

“My friend in white! Welcome back. Have you enjoyed your ulwaat berries?”

Ignis shakes his head. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid. Things came up back home.”

The shopkeeper asks, “Home in Lestallum, sir, or home across the sea?”

“I-”

“You have the Tenebraen look, sir. And you were so excited to taste the fruits of the Ulwaat region. Surely I am not wrong?”

This man is clever. Ignis acquiesces with a nod and a smile. “I am indeed from Tenebrae, though I have not returned in some time. May I ask how our home fares?” He leans closer, giving a quiet laugh of embarrassment. “I’m afraid I’m rather out of the loop.”

“Hm. So it seems.” The bright smile returns to his new friend’s face. “Tenebrae flourishes under the empire. Lady Lunafreya and the High Messenger were returned safely to Fenestala Manor by the High Commander. Thank the gods that they survived the attack on Insomnia.”

“Thank the gods,” Ignis echoes.

The vendor squints at him. “Are you devout, sir?”

“I like to think I am, yes.”

“Hm. Your enthusiasm is lacking.”

Ignis offers his hands, palms up, as a sign of peace. “I am merely weary, my friend. Of course I rejoice at news of the Oracle’s safety. She means much to me, and to my faith. To hear she is safe…” He trails off, then adds, “Well, it gives me hope that I will return one day.”

“What keeps you away?”

“Complications with the empire, unfortunately.” Namely that he’s a supposedly dead divine ally who has sworn himself to the empire’s worst enemy. Or that his brother is the High Commander who hates his adopted nation, or that his sister lives a lie, risking herself in order to keep Ignis’s secret safe from all of Eos.

But this man doesn’t need to know that.

“The empire retreats. Duscae and Leide are safe under the small amount of bases they have now, but Cleigne still contains pro-Lucian insurgents that must be eliminated.” The vendor shrugs. “That is what they say, at least. I will confess that I only come to Lestallum for trade on occasion. Tenebrae is home for me.”

Ignis smiles. “You are a lucky man.”

“Lucky indeed! When the wind blows in from the east, it carries the scent of Lady Lunafreya’s sylleblossoms to my window.” The vendor sighs, smiling wistfully at something Ignis only barely remembers. “They are truly Tenebrae’s treasure.”

“Sylleblossoms,” Ignis murmurs, and he asks, “Do you have any?”

Gods, what he wouldn’t give to smell sylleblossoms that aren’t burning.

“Unfortunately, no. The flowers wilt outside of the holy land, more often than not. In Lestallum’s heat, they’d surely perish.”

Ignis frowns. “Of course. Yes, you’re right.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m afraid I must be going, though. I’ve got errands to run.”

“For your friends?” When Ignis affirms it, the vendor nods sagely and says, “Tell them that it’s not safe to be wearing so much black in Lestallum. You have the right idea, my friend.”

Ignis thanks him and takes his leave. He goes on his way silently, weaving his way between the stalls in search of the food items they’ll need. He picks up some film for Prompto’s camera, some pencils for Iris’s drawing and designing, and an old book that he thinks Gladio might appreciate. The whole time, he offers polite smiles to the shopkeepers, trying to ignore the way that some of them sell their wares to him at higher prices than they’d had yesterday. It’s just not worth the fight.

They can’t stay in Lestallum. The empire may be retreating, but they can’t take their chances. They need to keep moving and head to the sea, though perhaps there’s one stop they can make along the way.

Deep at the center of Ignis’s heart, something agrees, and it whispers  _ justice. _

Yes. Something must be done.

They’re going to find Caligo Ulldor.

When Ignis returns to the Leville, Gladio and Noct are leaning over one of the balconies overlooking the city. They seem to be deep in conversation, but Gladio raises his hand in a wave when he sees Ignis down below. Ignis acknowledges him with a nod and continues into the Leville with all of his purchases in tow. He heads straight for that room once he’s inside, skirting the stain on the stairs once more. Though it’s long since dried, he feels as if it’d be disrespectful to the dead. After all, he is no Lucian: he has no red on the bottom of his shoes.

“Fort Vaullery,” Ignis announces, striding unannounced into Gladio’s room. Luckily, it seems like everyone has gathered here and not just Noct and Gladio.

From the balcony, Gladio pokes his head back into the room. “What’s that?”

“Fort Vaullery,” he repeats. “I’ll bet you anything that that’s where Caligo Ulldor is.”

Noct comes into the room, perching on the arm of the sofa where Prompto’s sprawled. “And your point is? I have no idea where that is.”

“It’s on the way to Caem.”

Noct’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says, and he extends a hand, idly twirling a summoned dagger between his fingers. “That’s appealing.”

“Bust a base,” Prompto suggests with a hint of a smile.

Gladio makes a disgusted noise. “Could you not call it that? It sounds horrible.”

“Come up with something cooler and we’ll discuss.”

Gladio flips him off and sits down on the bed, crossing his legs into a pretzel shape for comfort. “So what if we hit Fort Vaullery?”

Ignis shrugs. “I’ll confess I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“Hm. Fine. We can discuss it on the way, I guess. We leave tomorrow, though. Get packing, everyone.”

“I don’t think any of us  _ un _ packed, Gladio.”

“Great. Then get out of my room, Prompto.”

Prompto, with much groaning, extricates himself from the couch and drags Noct out of the room. “King’s Knight at my place,” he announces to the room before they leave, but then he’s gone, and it’s just Gladio and Ignis.

“I saw what you did, you know,” Gladio tells him. “For Iris, yesterday. Thank you. Really.”

“The magic?” Ignis asks, and when Gladio nods, he shrugs. “It was the least I could do. Think nothing of it.”

“I think something of it,” Gladio says solemnly. “For real.”

Ignis smiles. The warm light in his heart rises up to accompany the expression, and deep in his heart Ignis feels, for a blissful moment, nothing but satisfaction. He helped someone. He might not have cured her, but he’d eased her nerves. That is what the Oracle is to the people, right? A figurehead. A mentor; a peer; a guide.

He can be that for them. For his friends, he’d be anything they need him to be.

By midday the next day, they’re ready to go their separate ways and head towards Caem. 

Iris drags her bag downstairs, heading for the car. “I’ll be at the overlook!” she calls before Gladio can stop her, and she goes trotting off into the city. Gladio sighs but lets her go. Most Niflheim officers won’t recognize the daughter of the former Shield. 

Ignis wanders over to where Talcott Hester is waiting with his suitcase at his side and a bundle clutched to his chest. “What’s that, Talcott?”

Talcott smiles, eyes lighting up and banishing the grief from his expression. “Books. Grandpa had journals where he wrote everything he knew, and I brought some of mine from home.”

Impressed, Ignis nods. He leans closer so he can peer at some of the titles in Talcott’s arms. “Is that the  _ Cosmogony?” _

He nods.

Ignis crouches down to face him. “Have you been reading up on it, then?”

“Yep!” Talcott smiles. “I knew you’d be proud.”

“I am,” Ignis agrees. “May I?”

Talcott nods and holds the  _ Cosmogony  _ out to Ignis. This copy of the holy book is quite worn, but in the way that lets Ignis know it has been well read and well loved. That makes Ignis smile; nothing is quite as reassuring as the faith of others.

He flips it open to the page Talcott was on, running his fingers along the soft leather of the bookmark there. It must have been Jared’s, or perhaps even one of the Amicitias’ copies; the seal of the house of the Shields is embossed in gold on the black leather. Ignis keeps it carefully to the side while he inspects the page that Talcott left off on.

“Hm. The Infernian.” He traces the lines of the familiar illustration, trying to imagine the fiery wrath of the Pyreburner. But this picture is from before the great calamity and war of the astrals, before the betrayal of the Infernian. This picture depicts him as he had been once before: benevolent and clever, bestowing the first flame upon the most noble of the citizens of Solheim. Ignis murmurs, “Did you know, Talcott, that Ifrit once loved humanity? He was the first to recognize their potential, and the first to spurn them.”

“Spurn?” Talcott repeats, brow furrowing.

So maybe he needs to explain it differently if the words don’t quite make sense. “Let me show you.” He flips the page, bringing them to the next verse and its accompanying illustration. Here, he sees the Ifrit of legend, raining flames upon the gleaming towers of Solheim. “When the humans thought themselves above Ifrit, he let them feel the force of his wrath.”

Talcott marvels at the pictures. “But what about his blessing? We kept the fire.”

“Fire is more than just destruction, of course. It’s a campfire and the flame in a hearth or a candle.” Ignis smiles. “Sometimes fire is the only light we have. We have Ifrit to thank for that.”

“But not here.” Talcott points to a small detail Ignis hadn’t noticed before: a family cowers in the doorway of a Solheim tower, trying to hide themselves from the Infernian’s fury.

“No,” Ignis agrees. “Not here.”

“Let’s get this show on the road!”

Ignis turns at the familiar gruff voice, smiling when he’s immediately faced with Cid Sophiar and Cindy Aurum, standing in the doorway of the Leville. “Welcome to Lestallum!” he says, standing up to greet them. 

Cid looks him over. “Ignis,” he huffs. “Named after the Oracle, was it?”

“Something like that,” Ignis replies with a tight smile.

“I may not’ve been friends with Reggie in the end, but I know his ways,” Cid says. “He keeps his weapons close to the chest. You were a good secret to all of us outside of that damned Wall.” Cid nods to Ignis. “You do right by him, you hear?”

Ignis sets his jaw and says, “As long as you do right by Talcott.”

“Please, Cid,” Gladio says, sidling up beside Ignis. “He’ll get into less trouble with you than with the Crownsguard.” Dustin and Monica had offered to come through town on their way to Caem, but Gladio had politely declined in favor of putting Talcott with his father’s old friend. “Besides, Cid, he’s a good kid. Well behaved.”

Cid grumbles noncommittally, but he still carefully fits a Hammerhead cap on Talcott’s head. “Let’s hope your daddy taught him some manners.”

“Why can’t Iris come with us?” Talcott whines.

Gladio bends to meet his eyes. “I need you to protect Cid and Cindy for me, bud. And Iris is coming with us because we’ve got some catching up to do. Besides, if you came with us, we’d have to stow you in the trunk.”

Talcott giggles, “I’d fit!”

“I’m sure you would, but let’s not find out just yet, yeah?” Gladio pulls Talcott into a hug and ruffles his hair. “Be good for old Cid for me, yeah? He was my dad’s friend, back in their glory days.”

“I remember,” Talcott says. “I saw the pictures!”

“That you did.” Gladio sits back on his heels. “That means you have to be on your best behavior. Try to help him out when you can. Maybe he’ll even give you a job.”

“A job?” Talcott and Cid exclaim at the same time. Their inflections are noticeably dissimilar. Ignis almost laughs, but he stifles it in his glove just in time.

Gladio pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Well. Sue a guy for giving a kid some hope.” He stands up. “Okay, Cid, let’s talk shop.”

Ignis carefully backs away from the conversation, wandering across the lobby. He doubts that Cid will want to be talking to him. That’s okay; he doesn’t begrudge Gladio his closeness to the old king and his friends. He is a true Lucian, after all, and understands the people of the mainland perhaps better than Ignis ever could. 

Prompto locked in conversation with Cindy. They’re discussing his machinery, if Ignis heard them correctly. Or maybe motorcycles. Mechanical things have never been Ignis’s strong suit, after all, so he can’t be blamed for not knowing what they’re talking about. All he knows is that they’ll be at it for a while. Cid and Gladio are similarly occupied, but their conversation sounds a bit more urgent. Logistics, certainly.

Well. Better Gladio than Ignis. He’s the Shield of the King, after all.

In the meantime, Ignis wanders out into the plaza outside to find Noct. Without the fans running to circulate the air like they are in the lobby, the open stone area of Lestallum is borderline sweltering. Ignis can practically see the heat radiating off of the flat stone tiles of the plaza. He can’t, however, see Noct.

At the same time, he’s aware of something tickling at the back of his awareness. It’s so comfortingly familiar that he doesn’t realize it’s divine until he nearly trips over Umbra himself.

“Umbra!” he exclaims, crouching immediately to rub beneath his chin. Umbra gives a doggy smile and leans into the touch. There’s only one reason why he could be here. “Noct, hello.” 

“Hey, Specs.” Noct sits against the wall of the building they’re beside, intently looking at his and Luna’s scrapbook.

“New letter from Lunafreya?”

Noct runs his fingers along the page, staring at the stamp and writing that Luna has doubtlessly left for him. He smiles softly. “I, uh. She’s headed to Altissia,” he says, and he looks up to meet Ignis’s eyes. There’s a new hope in his gaze that wasn’t there last night. “Says that Ravus let her go.”

“He surely wasn’t happy about it,” Ignis mutters, but he can’t help but smile. “I’m glad to hear it. Did she say where she’ll be?”

Noct shakes his head. He says, “No, but I’ll bet she’ll be under lock and key. The Oracle near a god’s altar during all this? Niflheim would be stupid to let her walk free.” He scowls. “Unfortunately.”

“Hm.” Ignis digs around in his pockets and retrieves a dog treat, holding it out for Umbra. “You’re lucky your sister didn’t eat them all,” he scolds gently. “You should come around more often if you’d like to get your share.”

Umbra won’t, of course. He’s always been more of a friend to Luna and Noct. But he still nips at Ignis’s fingers, sniffing around for more treats. Ignis can’t stay mad at him by any means. He’ll still miss him, and he tells him as much, burying his face in the scruff at Umbra’s neck. Umbra licks his cheek in return, and at last Ignis smiles. 

“Yes, I know. I’m sure you’re on a tight schedule. Luna doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He sits back on his heels. “Noct, have you finished with your message?”

Noct nods and reaches out; Umbra trots over to him, standing dutifully still while Noct fastens the notebook to the sash around his chest. Umbra licks Noct’s cheek as well, barks to each of them, and then goes trotting around a corner.

Ignis doesn’t bother chasing him. He knows Umbra is long gone by now.

He sighs. “Well, I’m glad she’s doing fine.”

“Yeah.” Noct stands and brushes off his pants. “You’re gonna see her again soon.”

“And so will you,” Ignis reminds him. “It’s been twelve years for you as well.”

“Yeah,” Noct counters, “but she’s your sister.”

“And your betrothed, Noct.”

Noct scowls. “I don’t know what an agreement between a dead king and a sadistic emperor is supposed to mean anymore. That wedding isn’t happening any time soon.”

Ignis asks, “Disappointed?”

“No,” Noct says at once, and it’s not even indignant. Just...confident. Secure. 

“Oh.” Ignis files that thought away for later. “Let’s reunite with the others.”

The two of them wander towards the edge of the city where they’ve left the Regalia. The others are already waiting there, and Cindy’s massive truck begins to rumble out of the way once she sees them. She honks the horn when she goes, though, and that sends enough children into giggles that Ignis can’t help but smile. Laughter is the best medicine, and all. Healing is more than just the Starscourge.

These people could use the healing.

“Can I drive?” Prompto begs.

Before Ignis can even respond with an enumeration of every reason why Prompto should stay away from the Regalia’s driver’s seat, Gladio silences him with a swift “No chance.”

“Aw, why?”

“I only trust Iggy to drive when Iris is in the car.”

All the better. Ignis has never been more calm and focused. There is a purpose now. Get Iris to Caem. Get to Altissia. Perform the rite. Find Bahamut. Retrieve the Crystal. Defeat the empire. Defeat the darkness. Fulfill the prophecy. Kill-

He tightens his hand on the car door.

“Specs? You okay?”

_ -Noct. _

“I’m fine, Noct. Just thinking.” He smiles a bit and opens the door of the Regalia. “Thank you, Gladio, by the way. I’m flattered.”

“Do me a favor and don’t crash my sister into a tree, and you’ll get all the flattery you want.” Gladio ushers Iris into the car and then gets in after her. The rest of them follow suit.

He mentally prepares himself for what will surely be days on end of driving. It shouldn’t take more than two for them to make it to Caem, assuming they only drive during the day and keep a steady pace with only a stop or two along the way. But with the days getting noticeably shorter, Ignis wonders if they’ll have to start cutting into their travel time for their own safety. It’s not ideal, and he certainly doesn’t like it. Getting to Caem is the priority, and to Altissia as well, but Ignis is fond of thinking things through one step at a time.

One step at a time.

Start the car.

Leave Lestallum.

Drive.

That’s all he needs to do. That’s all it takes to get to Caem.

_ Justice,  _ his heart whispers, and he doesn’t know where the voice is coming from: the gold or the place it left behind. He ignores it for now. There’s work to be done.

In Old Lestallum, they decide to take a rest.

In the hotel room, they pace around, discussing their next steps. Ignis likes this routine. One step at a time. Yes. This is right.

“We’re going to pass right by Fort Vaullery.”

Prompto taps his foot. “Another garrison? It’s risky.”

“He’s right,” Gladio agrees.

“But  _ he’s  _ in there!” Iris stomps her foot on the ground. “We can’t just stand around and do nothing!” she cries.

She’s right. They can’t.

Ignis offers, “Then we strike. We find Caligo Ulldor and we take him into custody.”

“Why not just kill him?” Noct asks. “I’d rather do that.”

“He’s an officer. Officers have intel.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I thought it was clear,” Ignis insists. “We’ve gotten what we can from the airships and magitek troopers. Metal won’t tell us anything, but bones bend easily.”

Prompto eyes him. “Yeah. Of course.”

Ignis looks away before he meets Prompto’s gaze. It’s not as if he’s telling a lie. Pain is a motivator for even the strongest of men, and Ignis knows that it will serve them well enough with this pathetic excuse for an officer. It can be done. After all, who knows pain better than a healer? “I think it’s a feasible strategy,” he says. “Though if we split up, we’ll need a few extra sets of hands.”

“I can call in a favor,” Gladio offers. “I did a bunch of work for the hunters during our week off after Titan. They owe me one.”

Noct asks, “Would they even want to help us? Lucis has been controlled by the empire for years.”

“Yeah, and according to them, most imperials are fuckin’ monsters. They’ve got no love for them; don’t worry. I’m sure a few of them would love to help track this Caligo guy down, or at least rough him up while they wait for us to ask him what we want.”

“Then it’s decided.” Ignis looks around at all of them. “Right? Noct?”

Noct nods. “I’m in.”

“Then let’s go!” Iris exclaims.  
Gladio snorts and shakes his head. “You’re staying here.”  
“No, I’m not.” Iris pushes past Gladio, trying to get to the door. “I’m going with you.”

“Yeah, no. Sorry, kiddo.”

“We’re getting revenge, right? I want that. I can do that. I’ve trained for that, Gladio, come on!”

Gladio shakes his head. “You haven’t finished your training yet. I can’t bring you into an imperial base in good conscience. Please, Iris.”

Iris scowls and storms back into the room, brushing past Ignis and Prompto to sit down at the window seat, folding herself up away from everyone.

With a sigh, Gladio gestures towards her, looking desperately at the rest of the group. It’s the sort of look that means  _ please, gods, help me fix this,  _ and Ignis truly does feel for him. Gladio buries his face in his hands with a sigh and leans his forehead against the door to the motel room.

It’s not the best situation by any means.

Ignis looks to Iris, but she resolutely avoids eye contact. With her expression this stormy, she resembles her father to a frightening degree. Ignis understands her frustration: uselessness and fear and restlessness, all bundled up into a storm of emotion. 

_ Please lend me a hand,  _ he begs silently.  _ For my friends. _

A quiet whine sounds through the motel room.

Noct looks up from his phone. “Did you guys hear that?” he asks, frowning.

“Sure did,” Prompto says, pocketing his phone. He crouches down, eyes lighting up. “I know that sound anywhere.”

Ignis nods, crouching as well. “As do I,” he murmurs, heeding the call of the light in his heart. He smiles. “Come on out, my friend.”

He sees her nose first, black and twitching, poking out from beneath one of the beds. Then the rest of her snout, white as snow, and then her bright blue eyes and darker markings. Pryna crawls out from beneath the motel bed, shaking dust from her fur before sitting primly on the ground, looking around at them all. 

“Tiny!” Prompto says with a smile, fond and quiet.

“Indeed,” Ignis agrees. “Hello, Pryna.”

She cocks her head to the side.

Gladio, from his spot at the door, says, “You know, I read about deus ex machina, but you’re really toeing the line here.” From the sound of his voice, he’s still leaning his head on the door.

Ignis chuckles. “Perks of the job, Gladio.” He nods over to Iris. “Pryna. I must ask a favor of you. Could you keep an eye on her for me?“ he asks. “You know Iris. She’s a friend.”

Pryna barks.

Ignis smiles. “Thank you, dear friend. I appreciate it.”

Iris says, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me home with a  _ dog.” _

“The dog is Pryna,” Gladio corrects, elbowing her. “She’s in the  _ Cosmogony,  _ Iris. C’mon.”

“Whatever.” Iris crosses her arms and looks out the window, ending their conversation in that way that only people her age have mastered. She twirls something furtively between her fingers, though: a little butterfly knife, probably stowed away somewhere on her belt. It’s a credit to her ability that Ignis hadn’t noticed it before; she doesn’t even have access to the armory.

Gladio sighs. Ignis is briefly glad that he never had a younger sibling. Is this what Luna and Ravus had to deal with back when they were all in Tenebrae? Was he like that? “Well, then let’s get going.”

“Agreed,” Noct says, and he saunters out of the motel room. “Bye, Iris.”

Iris frowns, but quietly says, “Bye, Noct.”

Ignis smiles a bit on his way outside. That was a good move by Noct, intentional or not: Iris’s soft spot for their king may have helped to soften the blow of their departure.

Regardless of who bade her farewell, Iris stares forlornly out the window at them as they leave. Pryna hops up beside her at the window sill, tongue lolling out happily. She licks Iris’s face, and the last that Ignis sees, Iris has started laughing, hugging Pryna to her chest.

Pryna’s always been good at raising people’s spirits. She banishes daemons in more ways than one.

They’ll be okay.

Ignis turns his attention to the road ahead, urging his chocobo onwards. The bird caws quietly but follows his lead anyway, trotting placidly along the way towards the bridge over the River Wennath.

With a matching cry, Prompto’s bird runs faster and takes the lead. Prompto’s wearing the largest grin that Ignis has seen in some time. He seems to know where he’s going, and he certainly knows more about chocobos, so Ignis is content to follow behind, trying to come up with some sort of plan.

Noct had been all in favor of killing Caligo Ulldor on sight, but they’d ended up agreeing on Ignis’s plan. If they manage to get any insight on the empire’s plans for the Hydraean, it’ll be a win. The quiet thunder of Gladio’s voice from behind him lets Ignis know that Gladio’s on the phone with the hunters right now, setting up a time and place for the extraction. They’re going to bring him up to Meldacio Hunter HQ, which the hunters promise is a hotbed of anti-imperial sentiment.

Fort Vaullery isn’t far. 

By nightfall, the air has gotten heavy with the aura of magitek. The miasma surrounds them in waves as they sneak through the base. They’ve decided to split up once more, and Noct and Ignis are the ones who’ll be capturing Caligo while Prompto and Gladio start sabotaging the base. 

The two of them slip between shadows, chasing rumors and half-remembered intel until they come across a squad of troopers with a human officer at their head.

Caligo Ulldor is an ugly man.

That’s his first observation. The armor makes him look like a gold-plated crustacean draped in thick fabrics, and his cheeks are red, even in this light. He’s got dark eyes and a cruel mouth and hair that threatens to fall into his face. 

“This the guy?” Noct mutters, peering over the edge of the box. “I hate him even more already.”

“Mm,” Ignis hums in reply. “Let’s turn that into focus.”

“You sound like Gladio.”

“I’m flattered, Noct.”

“Gross. I don’t want to think about Gladio when I’m-” He stops and scowls. “Never mind.”

Ignis suggests, “Back on target.” He considers asking Noct what he was about to say, but he supposes this isn’t exactly the best time.

“Gladly.” Noct pulls out a dagger, flipping it in his hand. “I’m going in from above. You gonna follow behind?”

“Of course.”

“Try to keep up,” Noct says, grinning.

Ignis returns the smile. “Always.”

Noct flips the dagger one more time, aims, and then bursts into starlight, streaking up to land on a catwalk high above.

The chase is on.

Ignis keeps pace with the muted bursts of blueness that mark Noct’s movements, stalking Caligo Ulldor through the base.

As he moves between shadows, he listens to Caligo rant to his troopers. It’s a rather one-sided conversation; it would seem that magitek soldiers don’t have the capacity for intelligent free-form replies. At least what Caligo’s saying is interesting. There’s some of the usual posturing that makes Ignis’s nose wrinkle. He mentions a woman named Highwind. A commodore, sent by the chancellor to watch over him. Perhaps to mitigate the fallout of Caligo’s rash decision to kill Jared?

She’s not doing a very good job, then.

Eventually, Caligo ends up alone, striding off towards a location he’ll never reach. Noct must take the same cue, because he suddenly hits Caligo in the back with the full force of a warp. He strikes him with the blunt end of the dagger’s hilt, sending him crashing to the ground. He stays crouched over the body for a moment before standing and banishing the dagger.

Ignis joins him out on the tarmac. He studies Noct’s face; it’s wearing a curiously blank expression. “Noct?”

“That was satisfying,” Noct admits, “but I still would rather kill him.”

“So would we all, I’m sure. Go join the others. I’ll take care of him and meet back up with you.” He points off into the distance. “Get rid of that magitek generator, would you please?” It’s hard to ignore the weight of its presence.

“‘Course. See you soon.” Noct pushes his hair out of his forehead and jogs off towards another laser-bound gate, pulling out what looks like the engine blade as he approaches a pair of guards there.

Ignis turns before Noct makes his strike. He musters his strength and drags Caligo’s body through the base, keeping to the shadows. This man is far heavier than Ignis had hoped he would be, and the metal armor certainly doesn’t help. No amount of magic will help to move him, though Ignis does try spreading some ice in his path using the covenant in his chest. It helps, but it also makes him slip as well, so he abandons that particular idea. It’s sort of fun while it lasts, though. 

As he gets closer to the entrance, other figures bleed out of the shadows to join him. Two hunters, wearing the dark brown of their order, help bring Caligo Ulldor’s unconscious body out of Fort Vaullery. Ignis admires the utility of their garb; it’s often difficult to distinguish their forms from a passing shadow. His own uniform lends itself to hiding in plain sight, darting along the edge of searchlights before hiding behind the next stack of crates.

Slowly but surely, they make it out. A few hundred feet away from the stronghold, Caligo begins to stir to consciousness. Ignis is pleasantly surprised that it took this long for him to wake up. Noct must have done quite a number on him with the warp strike.

“Stand him up,” he orders.

The hunters obey, pulling their captive to his feet. One keeps a tight hold of him, and the other goes jogging off into the distance to retrieve their getaway vehicle.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Caligo asks groggily, but already there is venom in his voice, and a revolting haughtiness that makes Ignis want to seal his mouth shut. Maybe he should. There are ways to arrange that.

“You’re going for a ride,” the hunter tells him.

Ignis smiles. And he doesn’t quite hate this man. No, he doesn’t think he has it in his heart to hate too much. But there is something in him that cries out for revenge far louder than the part of him that begs for peace.

He holds back. The Oracle does not murder. The Oracle does not get even out of spite. There is only justice, and it will come to this man soon enough. Instead, he holds Caligo Ulldor by the chin and says, “We’ll get what we need from him in due time.”

“Your determination is endearing,” Ulldor spits.

Ignis smirks and lets go of his captive’s chin. This filth does not deserve the touch of the gods’ beloved. “Hold on to him while we clear the base,” he orders. “We’ll deal with him afterwards.”

The hunter nods. “Of course. We’ll take good care of him.” As he says it, he grips the back of Caligo’s armor a little harder and shakes him a bit. A crooked grin crosses his serious face. “This guy’s given us enough trouble over the years.”

“Lucian scum,” Caligo mutters, but a jagged hunter’s blade held to his throat seems to be incentive enough to shut him up.

Ignis nods, pleased to see his captive so cowed, and turns to leave. “Be safe,” he warns. 

“Will do, boss.”

For a moment more, Ignis stares back at Caligo Ulldor. This man does not exude the daemonic energy of his magitek soldiers, but he sends chills down Ignis’s spine nonetheless. Ignis frowns, picking through the armory, but decides not to bring a weapon out just yet. There’ll be time for that later.

He begins to walk away, stepping as lightly as possible as he makes for the shadows surrounding Fort Vaullery.

“Hey, what-”

The hunter’s sentence cuts off with a gurgle, and then a dull thud.

Ignis freezes in his tracks.

_ Wait- _

A knife buries itself in the back of his knee.

Ignis screams, staggering to the side. He reaches down and grabs the handle of the knife on blind instinct, remembers  _ removing the weapon makes the bleeding worse  _ and does it anyway, biting back another yell of pain when the blade grinds against bone on the way out. It’s an ugly knife, military issue, but it’ll do well enough. On muscle memory, he flips it in his hand and throws it back at where his assailant should be, but there’s nothing there but the body of the hunter and the broken cuffs that once held a murderer. 

Gasping around pain, Ignis limps towards the body, pulling his spear from the armory as support. He’s all too aware of his own blood running down his leg, soaking into his socks and dripping into his shoe. His leg threatens to buckle, but he grits his teeth against the pain and continues onward.

He’s too slow to hear the footsteps; he’s too slow to fight off the arm that latches around his neck and cuts off his air.

“Fool,” Caligo Ulldor hisses in his ear.

Ignis recoils and goes to summon a dagger, but he doesn’t get the chance. Caligo’s foot catches him in the back of his knee, hitting him just where the knife did.  _ Strategic,  _ Ignis realizes as he crumples to the ground, and the agony in his leg flares up again. He coughs when a heavy weight lands on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. It’s the armored knee of Ulldor, who leans over him with his full weight.

“I regret that I can’t stick around and punish you for your insolence,” Caligo sneers in his face.

Ignis struggles beneath him and spits, “I regret that I didn’t slit your throat when I had the chance.”

Caligo laughs and pushes Ignis into the dirt. “You wouldn’t have wanted to get your precious white clothes dirty.”

“Fuck you,” Ignis hisses, baring his teeth to the murderer above him. He pours all of his fury into the words, praying that he captures the rage of Noct and Gladio as well. This is what they would do. They would curse; they would fight. He will too.

“Child,” Caligo sneers, and he stands, lifting his leg from Ignis’s chest.

As soon as he’s free, Ignis pulls a dagger and makes to throw it. Caligo kicks at Ignis’s leg again, forcing him to cry out and send the blade sparking back into the armory. He knows he won’t be standing up to give chase any time soon. Ignis glares at Caligo through unshed tears of rage and agony, watching him retrieve weapons from the corpse of a hunter.

“I can’t even call your attempt admirable,” Caligo tells him, flipping the bloodied dagger in his hand before sheathing it at his side. “I do hope that Highwind makes short work of you.” He turns away, kicking the hunter’s body as he goes.

And Caligo Ulldor is lost to the night.

Ignis stays on his back for a few minutes, panting up at the impassive night sky. The darkness of a world without the sun suffocates him more than he’d care to admit, only making the pain in his leg worse. 

His heart lurches once more, struggling back into rhythm without the Fulgurian’s presence. Ignis pounds on his chest, gasping, trying to shock it back into obedience. It resists him for more time than he’s comfortable with, stuttering in and out of cadence.

The air rings with the distant thunder of gunfire.

Prompto.

The others. He needs to get back to the others. 

He closes his eyes, focusing as much as he can on the pounding of his heart. With some effort, he wills it back under control by exerting the force of his golden light on the pained muscles of his body. It helps, luckily, and Ignis waits for his breathing and heartbeat to stabilize and slow. It’ll do no good for him to rush into battle when he’s vulnerable. 

Cursing under his breath, he reaches into the armory for a potion. He knows they’ll feel it when he uses a curative, so he uses one that’s low-priority enough not to warrant attention. Potions are for minor wounds; this is enough of a balm to take the edge off. Ignis props himself up on his elbows enough to allow him to drink the potion instead of shattering it against his skin. He grits his teeth together at the feeling of tendons knitting themselves back together, panting into the silence of the area outside the stronghold. Gods, but it hurts. It’s certainly not enough to heal the wound completely.

Loathe as he is to expend more energy, he places his hand on the spot to fix it a bit more. The action makes him cough around the hollowness in his chest, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s the Oracle. He can do this.

Carefully, he makes his way to his feet, resting his weight on the injured knee. “Gods,” he hisses, reaching back to gingerly rub at the area. Maybe the bleeding stopped; he can’t be sure. In this light, and with the enchantment he wears, he’s not able to see any dark red seeping through the fabric. A bit trickles down the shining material of his shoe, though, and pools on the ground below his feet. Ignis scowls and leans a bit more weight on the bad leg. It holds him, thankfully, but the pain still lances through his nerves. When he starts his march towards Fort Vaullery once more, he tries to let the discomfort filter backwards into his subconscious mind.

It doesn’t work that well.

This is what he gets for being merciful.

_ I regret that I didn’t slit your throat when I had the chance. _

He’d meant it, mostly. He should have ended Caligo Ulldor’s life. If it’s information on the empire that they need, Ignis has more than enough avenues to get that. Keeping him alive was pointless. Keeping him alive was selfish.

He should have killed him.

It wouldn’t have been cold-blooded. It would have been justice.

Ignis is the Oracle. He is the beloved of the gods, voice of their will on earth and enforcer of their wishes, and he will punish those who dare harm the innocent. Jared did not deserve to die. Talcott did not deserve to lose his family; the Amicitias did not deserve to lose yet another remnant of their home. They did not deserve this pain.

Caligo Ulldor will deserve whatever death comes to him.

_ May it be painful, _ he intones in the cadence of one of his old hymns.

He grits his teeth against the pain in his leg and continues walking, knowing that he leaves a bloody footprint in his wake. Let them see where he has been. Let them know that he was here, and that he was mortal, and that he was vengeful. Let them know the Oracle walked among them with the power of the Glacian thrumming through his veins.

Magitek troopers rise to stop him as he returns to the stronghold, but he throws a flask to herald his arrival, sending frost scattering across the tarmac. The force sends icicles through the the bodies of the troopers, skewering them against the wall with pure force. The ones that survive the blast run towards him, and Ignis conjures his daggers, bending low and dragging them against the icy ground before slamming their points down into the tarmac. Another blast of ice, and the troopers fall.

Ignis stays crouched for a moment, scraping the daggers along the ground. The sound grates against his ears as the steel skitters across concrete and ice. He tilts his head to the side, searching for the sound of a distant fight. He finds it in the vibrations in his steel blades, radiating up from the ground. Carefully, he follows the sound and the feeling until he makes it into the middle of a firefight.

Gladio rolls past him, already conjuring his shield on the way up. He bashes it into the foot of the nearest magitek armor, forcing it to stagger. As it collapses, it falls into the path of Gladio’s greatsword.

Ignis leaps towards it and jabs his spear into the joints that Gladio’s strike exposed. The mech groans beneath him and tries to angle its arm up to whack him off, but Ignis cannot be moves. He goes from the shoulder to the head, slipping his dagger between the plates of the pseudo spine of the machine. It makes an unholy screeching noise and spews red miasma at him, but Ignis ignores it in favor of the defeat of an enemy.

“Glad you could make it!” Gladio calls, and he throws his sword at a nearby trooper. The trooper falls to the ground, knocked prone by the force of the blow. Gladio resummons his sword and charges over to finish the job.

Ignis turns, cursing lowly when the movement aggravates the injury on his leg, and locks eyes with Noct just as a trooper wraps its arms around him and lifts him into the air.

That won’t do.

On instinct, he sends a dagger somersaulting through the air, and it buries itself in the face of the trooper. It twitches and jerks, dropping Noct to the ground even as it collapses upon itself. It dissolved into smoke and sparks, shrouding Noctis briefly in the dark cloak of the damned. Ignis holds his breath.

But the smoke clears, and Noct stumbles out, already reaching out and grabbing his engine blade from thin air. “Thanks!” he calls, and he goes warping off to destroy the snipers up above.

By the time the magitek generator topples to the ground, they’re well into the night. Its disappearance sets Ignis at ease, though, and makes it easier for him to pinpoint whatever daemons or troopers may lurk in the vicinity. He doesn’t feel quite like he’s drowning anymore, and he shakes out his hands to dispel the remaining scarlet energy from his bones.

The other three gather around him. “How’d things go?” Prompto asks.

Subconsciously, Ignis adjusts his stance to keep his wound away from anyone’s view. Unless they look closely at the fabric, they won’t notice that he was just bleeding through a hole in his knee. He takes solace in that and says, “Caligo’s gone.”

“What happened?”

“He got away from his hunter caretakers.” He grimaces. “Took at least one of them down on his way out. I can’t be sure of the death toll.”

Gladio looks him over. “Are you okay?”

Ignis brushes off his shoulders. “Quite all right. He merely attempted to take me down as well. It didn’t work as he’d planned.”

“You took a potion,” Noct points out. “I felt it.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. He knocked me off guard.” Ignis holds his hands out, palms up, and smiles. “See? Not a scratch on me. All healed.” Lies like these get easier every time.

The rest of them don’t bother to protest again, which Ignis takes as a good enough sign of their resignation. It’s a hollow victory, but he’ll take what he can get.

“So we just...leave?” Noct asks. “We’ve done all we can, and if Caligo’s gone AWOL, then this was all a bust.”

“Bust a  _ base,”  _ Prompto points out.

Gladio rolls his eyes. “Never again.”

“But yes,” Ignis interjects, ignoring the quiet bickering that’s bound to start between those two, “we’ve not much else to do.” Something pokes at the back of his awareness, though: an apprehension that he can’t quite place.

“Let’s get out of here,” Noct mutters. “This was a waste.”

“Well, not completely,” Ignis protests. “We loosened the hold of the empire on-”

“What is  _ that?”  _ Prompto cries, and he points up to the wall of the facility.

A creature of red and black and white stands poised atop the parapet. Its features are hard to pick out: spikes atop the head, something long along the legs, and the spiny coil of a tail all stand starkly in silhouette against the floodlights. Whatever it is, it gleams with dark daemonic energy the moment Ignis locks eyes on it. It crouches, then leaps high into the air, far higher than any creature should, higher than Ignis for sure, and something appears with it in a burst of poisonous red energy, like the antithesis of the armiger.

And then it descends.

It spirals down towards them like some cruel living bullet, trailing scarlet stardust and heading right for-

“Noct!” Ignis bellows, conjuring his spear.

Noctis summons his engine blade just in time to catch the creature in midair. It leans in close, all black steel and magitek spikes.

“Hey, pretty boy,” it purrs.

Not a daemon at all.

A woman.

_ Highwind,  _ he realizes. The commodore. Hand-picked by the chancellor himself.

Noct sneers and pushes off with his sword, sending Highwind backflipping away to land lightly on the tarmac. Under the lights, Ignis can see the humanity in her cruel design; can see the form and function in the uniform.

Dragoon.

“Gods,” he mutters under his breath, and he leaps into the sky.

He can hear her laugh from down below, and she comes rocketing into the air to meet him.

A blade comes spinning past Ignis’s ear, and in a flash of sparks, Noct bursts to life holding its handle, pushing off of Ignis to land a strike on the dragoon’s shoulder. Ignis takes the momentum and aims for Highwind’s stomach to knock her off balance. It works, but that’s enough to force his inertia downwards, and he plummets.

He lands with enough force to crack the concrete, dropping the spear back into the armory as soon as he lands. He trades it for his daggers and flamebinds them, launching them up towards where Highwind dances with Noct high in the air. A few hit their mark, and as soon as they leave his hands, he conjures new ones, sending flames streaking through the sky. A few hit their mark, from what he can see, but they don’t do much damage.

It’s not an easy battle by any means. Over the course of their tussle, Highwind keeps summoning more imperial troops to back her up. They’re a nuisance more than anything, but with the force of Highwind’s attacks to fight against Prompto and Gladio run interference on the troopers. It’s mostly Gladio purely because he can’t follow Highwind into the air. He does a good job, naturally.

Ignis gets up into the sky as often as he can, but he can’t help but notice that he doesn’t have the same agility and skill as her. She twirls out of his way more often than not, and at one point she catches him with the clawed end of her wing ornament. He’s never seen one of her kind up close before, and the draconic elements of her armor send him reeling. It reminds him of the legacy of an astral he’s not yet met, threatening divine might now allied with the empire.

He fears her.

Noct warps up from time to time, often using Ignis as a springboard to land the right strike on Highwind. Ignis takes to his role easily, diving to the ground when Noct sends him flying. If it works, he’ll be whatever Noct needs him to be.

Prompto lays down cover fire from below. Most of his bullets glance off of the many spikes and steel plates of Highwind’s armor, and she laughs all the more with every strike.

She’s toying with them.

Ignis bares his teeth and stormbinds his daggers against his better judgment. He takes aim, glaring up at the sky, and lets the enchantment carry him up to her. 

Highwind meets his eyes; through the cruel steel of her helmet, the lightning turns her gaze the color of poison. “Clever,” she sneers. Her teeth flash white in a predator’s grin.

Why is she so unfazed?

The electricity crackles along her armor, racing down her arm and into the glowing red spear. She twirls it, kicks Ignis in the chest, and goes into a swan dive. She arches through the air and twirls a final time before landing on the top of the wall where she’d first appeared.

Ignis slams down on the ground, knocking a lone trooper to the ground. He gasps and banishes his daggers, clutching at his chest. Gods, he shouldn’t have used that enchantment. It’s never a good idea; not anymore. He pounds at his chest, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. His heartbeat will repair itself in time. Noct warps to his side, and Prompto and Gladio come running up to join them. All of them still have their weapons drawn, ready for a fight.

But Highwind just waves.

“Quittin’ time, boys. I don’t work overtime. You gave me a good time while it lasted, though, so don’t feel too bad about yourselves.”

Noct steps forward, clenching his free fist at his side. “That’s it?” he growls. “You’re done?”

“For now? You got it.” A red light bathes Highwind’s black armor in scarlet: a red-painted Niflheim airship hovers above the stronghold. Highwind tosses her silver hair back and leaps into the open cargo bay far, far above. “See you!” she calls as the ship rises into the sky.

And then she’s gone.

Gladio swears under his breath and banishes his weapons back to the armory. “Are we just letting everyone slip through our fingers today?” he asks. 

Prompto starts trudging away. “Guess so. I’m heading back. My chocobo had better be okay, or we’re going to have problems.”

“If something got to our chocobos, then that’s the bigger problem,” Gladio mutters, but he follows Prompto anyway. Ignis sighs and follows suit with Noct at his side.

In his periphery, Noctis frowns. “You’re limping.”

Ignis offers an apologetic smile. “Seems I took a bad tumble during the aerial portion of this fight. Landings are often hard to judge.”

Noct narrows his eyes; the effect is offset by the thin stream of blood trickling down towards his cheekbone. “Right.” He pauses, then adds, “I didn’t know that anyone else could fight like you.”

“If anything, Noct, I fight like  _ her.”  _ Ignis gestures to the night sky. “She was a dragoon.” He’d heard of them as a child: the legendary warriors of the sky. “They’re the stuff of legends back on the continent. I didn’t think there were any of them left.”

Prompto asks, “What happened to them?”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis admits. “After Tenebrae fell and I fled, I never heard much more about them. I assumed they died out.” He frowns up at the stars. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Guess so,” Noct murmurs. 

“Maybe Lunafreya will have answers for us when we make it to Altissia.” Ignis falls silent, mulling over the possibilities of how they’ll actually get to his sister. Like Noct said back in Lestallum, she’s bound to be under lock and key. Being a false Oracle certainly has restricted Luna’s abilities to pull any strings for them in Altissia. They’ll have to get creative if they have any chance of pulling off the rite without a hitch.

They’re all in their own contemplative silences as they retrieve their - completely unharmed - chocobos and start to head back to the town. They’re not in any particular rush; no vengeance drives them forward. Only guilt, and disappointment, and a restless desire to get out of Lucis.

Ignis can’t say he blames them.

By the time they get back to Old Lestallum, the sun has long since risen. The town is quiet, though, and nobody’s outside to see their arrival from over the bridge. They slow down as they enter, hopping off the chocobos and letting them wander out towards the surrounding hills. 

“Where is everybody?” Prompto asks.

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” Noct replies, squinting up into the sun as if the townsfolk will be hiding there. “This seems familiar. Like…” He trails off, eyes widening, and looks around at the three of them. “Fuck. Like Lestallum.”

“Iris,” Gladio breathes in horror, and he runs for the motel. Ignis and the others stay hot on his heels. 

When they get to the door, it’s already slightly dented, like someone had forced their way past the lock. Gladio doesn’t hesitate to slam his foot into the door, knocking it inward and revealing the interior they’d left behind not even a day ago.

There’s no sign of Iris or her divine companion. There’s just the signs of a struggle. There’s just the smell of steel in the air.

And there are two bodies in here.

Not Pryna’s. Not Iris’s.

Magitek troopers.

Ignis bends to inspect the bodies. The cores are definitely inert, so they’re not playing dead. One of the cores, actually, is completely destroyed, raked through by a series of slashes that sink deep into the surrounding steel. Ignis studies the slashes, running his fingers along their trail. “Single strike,” he mutters. “Nobody could have this type of repeated precision with a single knife.”

“Claws,” Prompto suggests, leaning in close. “What about the other?”

“Oh! You’re back!”

The four of them all look up at once, summoning their respective weapons. They all take aim, and Ignis very nearly lets a dagger fly.

“Guys! It’s me!”

Iris Amicitia stands silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, hair still damp from a shower. She puts her hands on her hips. “Took you long enough.”

“Fucking hell,” Prompto breathes, dropping his gun to the ground; it shatters into crystal before it hits the floor. “You couldn’t have texted?”

Gladio runs to her and holds her by the shoulders, checking her for wounds. “They attacked you?”

Iris shrugs. “They thought they could.”

Ignis checks the other trooper’s body. “The neck’s been snapped,” he announces.

A pause, and then Gladio laughs, weak and relieved. “Dad would be proud. You held your own.” He pulls her into a hug.

Ignis leans against the wall, watching them.

They’re a good pair. They’re siblings, after all. That’s what they do. 

Would Lunafreya have been that protective of him, had they grown up together? Or Ravus? Would his siblings have guarded him in the Manor after the fall of their nation? Would they have helped him through his ascension to the station of their mother?

He supposes he’ll never find out. It doesn’t do to dwell on empty possibilities and on futures that will never come to pass.

Besides, it hurts his head to imagine those minds of things. The images of his childhood home are harder to conjure up than he thought they would be. Where had his room been?

He can’t remember what sylleblossoms smell like.

He stands abruptly. “I’m going for a walk,” he announces, and he goes towards the door.

“We set out tomorrow,” Noct calls after him. “You’re driving.”

“I always am,” Ignis replies with a wave over his shoulder, and he heads out into the night.

Luckily, they’re in a town tonight, so the daemons don’t dare stray into the light. It keeps Ignis’s head from being even further weighed down. It’s bad enough that he’s started to spiral towards Tenebrae. 

He ends up seeking high ground. He’s always found solace in the lofty heights of the world; perhaps that’s why he chases them so often. Ignis makes his way to the roof of the motel, finding a spot with a nice ledge to sit on and think. So that’s what he does, staring up at the stars. They’re still not very bright out here; there’s too much civilization around. Maybe they’ll have more luck further into Cleigne, and then he and Noct can finally see the stars for real.

What had the stars looked like from Tenebrae?

Ignis curses lowly, finding comfort in the lilt of his mother tongue. It’s not often that he falls into it, but this seems as good a time as any. Not many of the words come to mind, but the ones that do are enough of a comfort to remind him who he is. Ignis snorts.  _ Remember who you are.  _ What a ridiculous thing to ask of him. As if he could ever forget what he is, and what he’s meant to do.

So why is it getting so hard?

It’s Gladio who finds him, as he always does. He climbs up onto the ledge where Ignis is, peering over the edge before slinging his legs over the barrier. “Not the safest place to sit and think, in my opinion.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Gladio settles in beside Ignis and offers a can of Ebony, which Ignis gratefully accepts despite the late hour. It’s more about the comfort of the taste than anything. “Kinda my job, Your Highness.”

“Don’t call me that, Gladio; I’m not your prince.”

“Mm, that’s neither here nor there.” Gladio falls silent and takes a swig of whatever it is that he’s chosen to drink. One of his beers, maybe? Ignis enjoys the silence, but he knows that Gladio will say something eventually. So he savors the Ebony while he can, swinging his legs a bit.

“Something’s eating at you.”

Ignis smiles, but he can’t quite find the mirth to put behind the expression. “Am I that transparent?”

“Afraid so.” Gladio tilts his head. “So? Spill.”

Ignis shrugs. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Is it bad that I enjoy it?”

Gladio blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Ignis feels his face flush; he hadn’t meant to blurt it like that, but it seems like no part of him is eager to obey his mind lately. He goes on, “I only mean, well...battle. Fighting. Killing. I enjoy it.”

“And?”

“I am sworn to protect life, Gladio. I shouldn’t be chasing the thrill of extinguishing it.”

“I think,” Gladio says slowly, “that you enjoy the battle more than the deaths. You like battle because of the strategy. Because of the dance.”

“But Caligo-”

“You didn’t do anything to him.”

“I wanted to,” Ignis says roughly. “Didn’t you?”

“I wanted revenge, sure. He deserves to be dead.”

“He deserves to suffer.”

“Ignis.”

Ignis shakes his head violently. “Don’t just ‘Ignis’ me, Gladio. He hurt you! He hurt Iris and Talcott and  _ Jared.  _ My heart aches for him, Gladio, and for you all and for Noct as well. I just-” He clenches his fists, staring down at the way the leather strains over his knuckles. “I just don’t know how to feel.”

Gladio leans closer. Quietly, he suggest, “I think you do.”

Of course. Ignis nods. Of course Gladio’s right. He knows how to read Ignis better than nearly anyone. “But I don’t like how I feel,” he whispers. “It feels ugly. It feels wrong.”

“It’s how you feel.”

“I shouldn’t. I’m the Oracle, Gladio. I’m a healer. I’m a pacifist.” He hangs his head. “At least I thought I was.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, lately.” Gladio carefully puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing what you have to do, Ignis,” he tells him. “This is a high stress situation. It’s natural that it might be getting to you.”

Ignis shrugs. “Perhaps that’s it.” This is what Gentiana wanted, right? He looks up at Gladio and offers him a trembling smile. “Maybe Caem will be what I need to get my head on straight again.”

Gladio nods. “That’s the spirit.”

“Thank you, Gladio,” Ignis says. “I feel better.”

A rare smile crosses Gladio’s face. “I’m glad. Don’t stay up too late, okay? I need you alert behind the wheel.” He pats Ignis on the back and gets up from the ledge, heading back towards the roof access door to get back down into the motel.

Ignis watches him go.

He bows his head, crumpling the half-empty can between his fingers. It doesn’t feel right.

Lying to them gets easier every time.

There’s that feeling again.

Shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	15. cape caem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude and a farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small hiatus but we're back!

The water at Galdin Quay had been tranquil. The waves had been nothing more than the easy pulse of the ocean’s breath, in and out across the sand. The Lerity Seaside is not that place. Here, the Cygillan throws itself against jagged rocks, etching out the shape of the rugged cliffside. The sound of it nearly blends in with the Regalia’s roar.

But not quite.

The rest of the trip had been uneventful other than a few skirmishes.

Some of the nights had been touch and go. The daemons have gotten bolder, creeping closer to the daylight hours to harass them. They’d had to take care of them, and so Ignis had gotten his hands dirty in order to clear the oppressive weight of darkness from his mind. He can’t help but feel sad whenever he kills a daemon. He can’t quite place the cause of his mourning, but every time, it feels like admitting defeat instead of emerging triumphant. The golden light in his heart whispers that he could have done more.

But the daemons don’t deserve the mercy Ignis grants to humans. They’re monsters.

That’s all behind them for now.

Now that they’re safely in Caem, Ignis has time to make the ulwaat pastries he’d been meaning to make in Lestallum before everything had gone wrong. He takes pleasure in setting out all of the reclaimed cookware and ingredients, marveling at some of the differences in the local ingredients versus what he’s used to back in Insomnia.

Monica peeks into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t need any help, Your Highness?” she asks.

Ignis shakes his head, focusing on the dough. It needs to be rolled out a bit more, perhaps. “Thank you for the offer, Monica, but I’m quite fine. And please, just Ignis is fine.”

She waves him off with a smile and disappears somewhere to continue repairs on the house. Ignis resumes his baking quietly, enjoying the routine of preparing food. It’s relaxing to have the luxury of a kitchen and not just the cookware in their camping gear. Nothing quite compares to the smell of an active kitchen, after all.

By the time he’s done and the timer on the oven has gone off, Noctis has wandered into the kitchen. He perches on the counter, tapping away at his phone. The two of them don’t talk, but Ignis doesn’t mind. He doesn’t comment when Noct swipes a bit of the dough to pop into his mouth, either. What the others don’t know won’t hurt them

When the tarts are cool enough to touch, Ignis places them in a tray that he sets down beside Noct. “Try these.”

Noct blinks down at them, then up at Ignis. “All done?”

“All done. They’re not quite as fresh as they could’ve been, but these berries keep well, so they shouldn’t be too bad.” He wrings his hands, picking nervously at some flour that’s found a home in the lines in the palm of his hand. “Please let me know if they don’t taste right. It’s been ages since I tasted them, and-”

“Specs.” Noct holds up a hand to stop him. “I bet they’re going to be good. Besides, I barely remember them anyway.”

“I do hope you’ll remember,” Ignis says, and he finds himself wringing his hands. This search has been part of their lives since Ignis was old enough to be granted access to the Citadel’s kitchens. This is his and Noct’s mission, just as they’re determined to see the stars for what they are. Noct must remember. They shared this when they were children; Ignis knows he can bring it back.

“I’ll try my best,” Noct says, and he takes a tart from Ignis’s tray.

He takes a bite.

Ignis waits.

Noct’s brow furrows, and Ignis’s heart sinks.

And then, slowly, Noctis begins to smile.

“Ignis,” he hums, eyes still closed. “Ignis, I could kiss you.”

_ You could. _

He smiles. “I presume that means you like them?”

“Presume forever,  _ yes,  _ Ignis, holy gods.” Noct sighs, chewing thoughtfully at the tart. “It’s...familiar,” he says.

Ignis’s heart stutters a bit. “Truly?” he asks.

“Here.” Noct swallows his bite and offers the other half of the tart to Ignis. “I promise.”

“Eat yours, Noct.”

“Gods, Ignis, c’mon.” Noct makes an impatient little noise, grabs Ignis’s hand, and forces the tart into his grasp. The motion simultaneously calms his arrhythmic heartbeat and sets it racing, but Ignis just obeys Noct with a bemused smile, raising the ulwaat tart to take a bite.

_ Oh. _

He lets his eyes slip shut as he tastes it, enjoying first the light buttered texture of the tart itself before the filling overwhelms his senses. It’s got a sweetness like a strawberry, but more subdued and smooth. That’s fitting, really: Tenebrae was never sharp, and never too bold. His homeland was beautiful and mountainous and secret, and it’s only fitting that its native fruit should be the same.

There are so many things in this world that he can hardly remember anymore, but this is not one of them. This is familiar. This is home. 

“These are the ones,” he says once he’s swallowed the tart, almost smiling when he realizes that the aftertaste still lingers. “Ulwaat berries. That’s the secret.”

Noct’s smile is wide when Ignis opens his eyes at last. It’s refreshing to see him so honestly pleased. “We did it,” he says, and he tilts his head to the side. His smiles shrinks a little, but is no less satisfied.

“Are you making more?”

“I suspected that, right recipe or not, they’d be flying off the shelves.” He shrugs. “Besides, I have the extra berries.”

“Make a billion,” Noct says, swiping another one from the tray. “Scratch that. A trillion. And I get all of them.”

“Noct,” Ignis chides with a smile, “even kings must share.”

Noct raises an eyebrow, already biting another tart. “Fine,” he acquiesces, chewing thoughtfully. “You can have some.”

“Only me?”

“Only you.” Noct wanders off into the next room, though, announcing, “Look what Specs baked, guys.” 

Prompto’s voice exclaims, with breathy reverence, “Ignis is a  _ god.”  _

“Close enough!” Iris pipes up.

“Awesome!” Talcott crows, and the other room devolves into an argument over who gets the most tarts.

Ignis smiles to himself and returns to his work. The rest of the dough molds easily beneath his fingers, taking shape as he works it along the counter. 

_ I could kiss you. _

_ You could. _

_ You could?  _ What was he even thinking? He scowls down at the dough, willing it into submission with his knuckles with perhaps a little more force than is entirely necessary. He’s being ridiculous. More and more often, he gets impulses he’s never had before, set loose from prisons that have disappeared along with his light.

He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous. He has more self control than this. Oracles cannot afford distractions if they hope to serve their kings. 

At least Noct is having fun. He can hear the giggles of the two kids from the living room where Noct and Prompto are entertaining them. He doesn’t hear Gladio’s low rumble, though, which is disconcerting. It’s rare to have one Amicitia without the other nowadays. He must be doing something important.

A brief movement outside the kitchen window catches his eye. Ignis squints out at the late afternoon sunlight, blinking in surprise when he sees Gladio heading out across the overgrown grass. There’s a set to his shoulders that Ignis doesn’t quite recognize. It almost feels like he’s looking in on something private. Gladio surely didn’t expect to be seen like this.

But at the center of his heart, Ignis’s light aches to help him, and for once his mind agrees with him.

As quickly as he can without sacrificing quality, he finishes shaping the tarts, spoons in the filling, and ensures the oven his hot. He puts the tarts in the oven, removes the oven mitts, and sets them aside. He’ll ask Monica to take the tarts out once they’re done.

Before he leaves the house, he pokes his head through the doorway of the living room, surveying the scene there. Noct and Prompto are slouched on one of the couches, idly tapping at their phones. Iris and Talcott are curled up in an armchair together, eagerly going through one of what must be Jared’s old journals.

Noct looks up at him lazily, eyes half hooded with exhaustion and contentment. “Going somewhere?” he asks.

“Just for a walk,” Ignis promises. “I want to see the sea.”

“See the sea,” Prompto repeats, and he chuckles. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous,” Noct drawls in retort, and he throws a crumb at Prompto. It lands squarely in Prompto’s hair, perching at the intersection of some of the more prominent strands.

Prompto squawks incredulously and balls up the napkin he’d been eating from. He takes aim, hisses, “You’re a dead man, Caelum,” and manages to hit Noct right on his eyebrow. His aim, as always, is impeccable.

“It’s on!” Noct crows with a laugh, and he sends a pillow flying at Prompto, bursting into starlight before crackling back into existence right as the pillow smacks Prompto in the nose. Noct manages to bowl Prompto over hard enough that they both fall off the couch.

Iris calls encouragement to them, and Talcott bursts into a flurry of giggles that have Ignis smiling along. He shakes his head, warns them not to break anything, and heads off to find Monica.

“Have you heard from Gladio?” he asks her when he nearly runs into her on the stairs. “I wasn’t sure if he’d gotten some news, or…?” He trails off, hoping that she might give him something.

She shakes her head, though, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Unfortunately not, Your Highness.”

“Ignis.”

“Ignis, then.” She smiles. “Go and find him if you’d like. I’ll make sure that the tarts don’t burn and the prince doesn’t tear down the house.”

“Thank you, Monica.” She’s a good Crownsguard, and an even better person. He’s missed having her around. She brings the quiet frankness he’s been so craving, acting as one of the last bastions of Insomnia might outside of the walls of the Crown City. 

Outside the cabin, the sounds of laughter fade away, replaced by the ceaseless crash of the sea far below the cliffs. Ignis follows his golden instincts, picking his way through the overgrown grass towards the edge of one of the drop offs.

Gladio leans on the fence and stares out at the sea. The sun casts him in stark silhouette, turning him into a dark shadow framed by a ring of flame. As Ignis draws closer, he picks out the darker lines of the eagle tattoo coming into focus. He recognizes every one of the black lines in the elaborate feathers; after all, he was at Gladio’s side when they were inked into his skin. The sight of the tattoo fills him with an aching sadness now, though he’s not quite sure why.

Ignis comes up beside Gladio, leaning on the top bar of the fence to look out at the rocks and sea spray down below. He doesn’t dare look at Gladio; he’s not sure what he’ll see if he does.

When Gladio at last breaks the silence between them, his voice is soft enough to almost get lost beneath the roar of the sea. “Remember when I said that I was afraid of failure?”

“Yes.” Enough to remember that he had agreed.

“So I think I failed, Ignis.”

Ignis frowns out at the raging sea. “When?”

Gladio scoffs, shaking his head. “When? I think you know.”

He does, of course. How could he not? “Ravus,” he says.

“Ravus.”

“My brother only bested you because-”

“It doesn’t matter why-”

“He is blood of the Oracle and enhanced by magitek-”

“I said it didn’t matter, Ignis.” Gladio turns his face away, words flying out to sea as he finishes his sentence. 

Ignis bows his head, waiting for Gladio to decide to continue the conversation. This isn’t his battle. It’s not a battle at all. It’s just Gladio, and his fear, and Ignis’s desire to keep him close.

“He destroyed me. If he hadn’t been your brother, what would he have done to you? To Noct?”

“We had Prompto-”

“Yeah, but I’m the first line of defense, Ignis. My entire life is protecting Noct.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

“And that’s the point,” Gladio says, and he summons his shield, dangling it over the rocks and sea spray far below. It gleams in the sunset light, all silver and gold. It’s befitting of nobility, and of the king’s protector. “What does this mean?” he asks roughly. “What is this if I can’t use it the way I’m meant to? My father died for King Regis. He gave everything to buy him more time. And what have I done? Gotten thrown into a car by a single commander. Noct doesn’t deserve that.”

Ignis nods, still focused on the shining shield that Gladio holds aloft over the sea. “What are you going to do with that?”

Gladio frowns. “Don’t think I deserve it right now.”

“That’s no reason to throw it away.” Ignis puts a careful hand on Gladio’s wrist. “It is still your birthright.”

“Hm.” Gladio raises his chin, considering the shield, and then drops it off the cliff.

The shock of it makes Ignis cry out and reach over the edge, desperate to catch the shield even though it’s far beyond him already. It somersaults through the air, plunging towards the sea. Gladio’s face remains unchanged, watching it fall. The dying sunlight casts his eyes briefly in shadow. Just before the shield crashes into the waves, never to be seen again, Gladio clenches his still-outstretched fist, and there’s a burst of azure starlight far, far below.

“Gladio,” Ignis breathes.

The shield appears back in Gladio’s grasp. He sighs and banishes it back to the armory; distantly, Ignis feels it return to their pocket dimension.

“What?” Gladio asks softly, clenching and unclenching his fist contemplatively. “Did you really think I would drop it?”

“You can never be sure.”

“No.” Gladio’s brows tip downward. “You can’t.”

Ignis stares down at the brutal waves and asks, “So where will you go?”

“Cor knows a place. Taelpar Crag.”

Ignis recoils. He remembers Cor’s words at the Norduscaen Blockade, and he knows that something lurks there. Unkillable. It’s close enough to godhood to be feared. Close enough that only Cor has escaped its lair alive. “You can’t,” he says firmly. “I won’t let you.”

Gladio smiles so sadly that Ignis’s heart breaks for him. “Apologies, Your Highness,” he says, “but I wasn’t asking.”

Of course he isn’t. Gladio has always had a plan; Ignis has always trusted him. He supposes he’ll have to trust him now. 

“It’s a trial,” he says at last. “Cor took it on when he was a kid. That’s how he became the Immortal. I need to do it if I have any hope of being the Shield I need to be.”

“Plenty of Shields have gone without it,” Ignis argues. “You don’t need to risk your life like this for a ghost story.”

“That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.”

Ignis asks, “Then why did you tell me?”

“Because I trust you, Ignis.” Gladio’s gaze is molten amber, steady and warm and unwavering.

“What are we to do without you?”

“Continue as usual, I guess. Stay in Caem. Fix up the boat with Cid and Cindy. Help Iris while I’m gone.”

“You expect us to just sit here while you go and risk your life on a ghost story?”

“You know, Ignis, I thought you of all people would understand that I’m going there out of faith.”

Ignis frowns. Faith. He should have expected that Gladio would say something like that. It’s true, of course, that much of his life is based purely on the blind hope that there’s some light at the end of the tunnel. But he knows that his future has been ordained by the gods. Gladio’s fate is far more nebulous. 

Whatever lurks in Taelpar Crag...Ignis does not trust it.

So he leans forward, lightly placing his hand on Gladio’s shoulder, and urges, “Take a blessing.”

“I can’t accept one. They wouldn’t let me do that.”

“The Shield of the Chosen goes with the grace of the gods.”

“But you’re not strong enough-”

Firmly, Ignis cuts him off. “For you or for Noct - for any of you, I am strong enough to keep you safe. I will not have you leave our sides unprotected. You are worth too much to all of us.”

“Ignis.”

“Come back to us. Come back to your sister, and to your king. Let me help you do that.” He places his forehead against Gladio’s and whispers a quiet prayer to whichever of the Six cares enough to listen. The Archaean, maybe, for strength. Or the Fulgurian for instinct, or the Glacian for her focus. Regardless of which astral decides to aid him in his task, Ignis focuses his power on Gladio, feeling the strength of his resolve. For a moment, he’s almost overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love he finds in his heart, unsure if there’s room for a blessing. But he grants it unto him anyway, and the golden light weaves its way alongside Gladio’s heartstrings.

It drains him more than he cares to admit, but he hides it as well as he can. He’s gotten good at that lately.

Gladio tries to pull away. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he growls, but Ignis holds him gently, still pressing his thumbs lightly along Gladio’s temples. “Iggy.”

“I do what I want,” Ignis tells him, “for my friends.” He tilts Gladio’s head down, just a bit, and presses his lips to Gladio’s forehead. “Be safe,” he murmurs when he releases him at last. “Go with my blessing.”

“I never went to the services back in Insomnia,” Gladio tells him, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a sad grin. “I’m a sad excuse for a believer.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ignis replies. He finds himself blinking against something like sea salt and brine. 

Gladio’s smile grows just a bit more, and he tilts his head to the side, studying Ignis carefully. His eyes shine bright with something that might be tears too, but he doesn’t let them fall. Instead, they catch the last bits of sunlight, turning his eyes briefly into flame. It makes him look more human and less so all at once, half in this world and half outside it. He could be a Messenger, maybe, in another life. But instead he’s Ignis’s dear friend, stepping out into the unknown to face something Ignis fears. “I’ll see you, Iggy,” he says, and he pulls Ignis into a hug.

Ignis holds him tighter than he’d imagined he would, burying his fingers in the leather of Gladio’s jacket as if that’ll keep him here at Caem. Gladio squeezes him a little, and Ignis can’t find it in himself to mind.

“Thank you,” Gladio murmurs in his ear. “I’m heading out tonight.”

“Be safe,” Ignis repeats again, far more fiercely than before. “Please.” He presses his forehead into the warm bulk of Gladio, determined to remember every bit of him in the event that he doesn’t come back.

But he will. He must.

They part after another few moments, and Gladio offers another sad smile before heading off towards the house. 

Left without someone at his side, Ignis stares back down at the sea below.

The ocean bursts into foam against the immovable masses of the rocks in a ceaseless cycle. Leviathan will have a fury like that, surely. She has no love for humanity. She does not care for the frivolities of emotion. Surely another few drops of salt water in her ocean will not matter to her, so Ignis lets them fall.

It helps, in a way, but it doesn’t make Ignis miss Gladio any less.

Long after Gladio has gone, Ignis allows his shoulders to slump. He’s more exhausted than he cares to admit. It was worth it, though. Gladio will need every ounce of luck that Ignis can grant to him. The Oracle’s duty does not stop just because of weariness. 

_ A king pushes onward always,  _ King Regis reminds him. 

It’s a good lesson, given to two princes before the world shattered. In Tenebrae, it had been easy to accept Regis’s optimistic advice. Of course a king pushes on; he’s a king. 

What if the king doesn’t have a nation anymore?

What if the king can hardly stand? What if he has not the strength to go on?

Ignis coughs into his hand; when he checks his palm, he grimaces when he sees that it’s bloody. 

This is not normal. Healing Scourge victims hadn’t taken so much from his body. But, he supposes, the circumstances are different. Healing the Scourge is more like using his light as a weapon. Granting a blessing and vitality saps him of his own strength. His body must have lost whatever Gladio’s gained.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. The magic of the bandage on his arm clears the stain before it even has a chance to set in, but for a brief moment he’s faced with the image of his blood shining bright scarlet against the white of his uniform. He coughs again, spattering the fabric with his blood once more before the marks fade away, banished by the magical item he wears.

All the better, then, that nobody else will notice.

He makes his way back to the house when he’s sure that he won’t start coughing again.

The tarts are done when he returns, and he sets them in a container so they won’t spoil, allowing Talcott to swipe a few before he goes to bed. 

Dustin is lending Gladio his car so he can make the trek out to Taelpar Crag on his own. Iris is nearly inconsolable, and the part of her that isn’t is frustrated that Gladio won’t take her with him since they’re both Amicitias. But Gladio had been firm, and he leaves on his own, driving off into the growing night. He’s going to get to the furthest possible haven before the daemons make it too dangerous to drive.

And then it’s just them. Two princes, two kids, a royal bodyguard, and two senior Crownsguard. They make a motley bunch. 

Before he goes to bed, he stands before the window and stares at the sea.

It gives him a curious sense of foreboding. He shivers. 

He’s in his underwear, about to slip between the covers, when the door to the bedroom opens. It’s Noctis, probably, but Ignis doesn’t bother to check. He squints out at the ocean instead and tries to imagine the distant lights of Altissia.

They’re surely going to be radiant. Luna had sent Umbra over with a brief message for Noct, and she’d slipped a postcard between the pages for them all to admire. Talcott had loved the swooping bridges over the canals, and Prompto now can’t wait until he gets a picture of the massive church and its elaborate architecture. It’s a beautiful city, and Ignis can see why Leviathan would rest beneath the waves at the Walls of Water.

But the thought of seeing a city across the water reminds him of the day of Insomnia’s fall, and of smoke rippling across the waves to meet them.

He frowns.

“What’s that?”

Ignis turns from the window. “What’s what?”

Noct points downward, and there’s a storm cloud darkness in his gaze. “When’d you get that?”

“What?” Ignis looks over his own shoulder, frowning down at the spot Noct is indicating. He supposes he should have expected that it’s the spot where Caligo had thrown the knife into the back of his knee. It hadn’t healed completely after all, despite the curative and his own abilities.

The scar is far more gnarled than Ignis had imagined it would be. It’s not super obviously in the shape of a stab wound, but it also doesn’t look like a very clean wound. It just looks...bad. Unhealthy. 

“Well,” he mutters, reaching down to rub at the spot, “that explains the stiffness.”

“So you didn’t even know it was there?” Noct asks incredulously.

“I certainly knew the wound was there, Noct, because I received it myself. I merely did not think that healing it would leave such a scar.”

“Was this from Fort Vaullery?” Noct demands. “When you took a potion?”

Ignis pauses, still touching the smooth scar tissue. “It’s not important, Noct.”

“Of course it’s important, Specs!” Noct retorts. “It’s you.”

“I’m fine, Noct.”

“You’re not, and you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Ignis insists. “It was a manageable injury-”

Noct interrupts, “You think I don’t notice when you get exhausted? You were practically falling on your face after you healed all those Scourge victims, and you said you were fine. You took whatever it was that you took to the leg, and you said you were fine.” He steps into Ignis’s space. “You’re not fine.”

“I promise it’s manageable,” Ignis says carefully. “It is my calling. Countless Oracles have devoted themselves to healing before.”

_ And how many died doing it? _

He banishes the thought before it gets too loud.

“Be careful,” Noct says softly. “Please.”

“I will. I am.” Ignis smiles. “I promise.”

Noct stares at him for a moment longer, still with his fists clenched at his sides. “Fine,” he says at last, and his expression shutters. His emotions are once more locked behind the prince’s facade, and he turns away from Ignis. There’s no more anger brewing in the set of his shoulders, though, so Ignis thinks he’s escaped without Noct’s wrath. 

The next day is easier. 

The freshness of the air out here will never cease to amaze him, he thinks. The sea is uniquely wild in a way that mountains and forests never can be. Water has the same reckless hunger as fire, in a way. But while water consumes, fire destroys; it leaves naught behind but ash. 

The certainty of fire appeals more to the warrior in him. There’s a reason he doesn’t bind his daggers with seawater, after all. But this brief moment of peace before the coming storm calls for the balm of salt spray and sand. Ignis can do without fire for a small while.

Especially now.

He’d been working up the courage to come here. Guilt still gnaws at him, but he swallows it down as he picks his way towards a secluded corner of Cape Caem and sits down at Jared Hester’s grave. It’s a simple stone, as so many things must be in times of war and hardship, but it has its own charm. The rough-hewn letters in the rock face add a sincerity to Jared’s loss. Nevertheless, Ignis finds himself wishing that Jared had a true tombstone to mark his rest. He deserves more than a quiet farewell; he gave his life that their cause may carry on.

“You were a father figure to me,” he admits to the impassive stone. “One of many. You and King Regis and so many of the others. You taught me to love history, and to love my people as I would love a fellow noble.” He smiles a bit, biting at his lip. “From the moment you met me, you made sure I was the kind of prince that the children of Lucis could admire. And I hope I can be that for Talcott.”

There is no reply from the grave. The dead cannot talk, of course, no more than daemons can. They’re beyond Ignis’s reach. He cannot reach between worlds like some Oracles have been known to do; he cannot conjure up the spectre of Jared Hester to hear his empty platitudes.

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering. 

“I know,” he says hesitantly, picking slowly through his words, “that in the end, those in thrall to darkness will know peace. It is ordained. I know that,” he repeats. He takes off his gloves and sets them in the grass. Gold leather against green reminds him of the seasons to come, and of the storms that will surely herald the end of summer. He rests his bare hand on the sun-warmed tombstone. “But I promise,” he says, and the stone beneath his fingers thrums with the frequency of the raging sea below, “the ones who harmed you will die screaming.”

That is the gods’ justice.

Later that evening, Ignis sits at a desk in the bedroom of the Caem house, diligently penning a letter to Lunafreya. They need to get ahead on their planning for the rite to raise Leviathan, though he’s not sure if they’ll be able to get in a full correspondence before he reaches Altissia. It doesn’t hurt to try, though. He just needs to wait for Umbra or Pryna to make an appearance so that he can leave the message with them.

“Here, Specs.” Noct comes into the room, walking up behind Ignis. “You left these outside.”

With a hum, Ignis acknowledges him, but he finishes signing off the letter with a small  _ Go with the grace of the gods, dearest sister.  _ He sets down the fountain pen carefully so as not to smudge the ink on his page, adjusts his glasses, and asks, “What was that, Noct?” as he turns to face him.

Oh.

Noct looks up at him with wide blue eyes, currently in the middle of tightening one of Ignis’s gloves onto his own hand with his teeth.

_ Oh.  _

Noct finishes fastening the strap and flexes his fingers, blinking down at his hands and then back at Ignis. “I was going to just bring them up, you know, but then I picked them up and. I dunno. Thought I’d try them on.”

Carefully, Ignis asks, “Have you ever considered wearing white?”

“Have  _ you  _ considered wearing black?”

Ignis smiles. “I have,” he admits, “though I do believe it’s not my color.”

Noct tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. “You’re Crownsguard,” he murmurs. “That makes it your color.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s mine.”

Maybe it’s just Ignis, but his mind fills in the heavy silence between them with what he might have imagined Noct would have continued with.

_ And so are you. _

It’s true, after all.

But Ignis just shrugs and says, “I’m afraid I’m duty-bound to represent my born calling first, and my chosen one second.” 

Noct makes a noncommittal noise at that that almost sounds like displeasure. He runs his hand through his hair. Ignis follows the movement with his eyes, taking in the sight of his golden gloves sliding between the dark strands of Noct’s hair. He blinks out of his reverie when Noct says, “Cindy says we need to go get mythril to power the boat.”

“Hm.” Ignis frowns. “That’s an inconvenience. It’ll take some time.”

“It’s either that or no Altissia.” Noct picks at the glove on his left hand, slowly removing it as he contemplates their plan. He’s in charge of strategizing now that Gladio is gone. “We can’t take Talcott.”

Ignis nods. “We can’t take Iris along with us either. There are blockades up there that’ll surely be staffed by soldiers. If Gladio finds out we took her, he’ll have our hides.”

“She can fight.”

“We can’t risk her. If he didn’t want us taking her along when we took on that garrison, then he’ll murder us if we take her to a random ruin in the middle of imperial territory.”

“Fine. Then we go on our own.” Noct finishes removing the first glove, baring his hand and holding out the golden leather to Ignis. “Are you ready?”

Ignis takes the glove, and he smiles. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at [triplehelix!](http://www.triplehelix.tumblr.com)


	16. steyliff grove.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the darkness; into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work is over and I'm on vacation! I'm thrilled to be back with this fic <3

“Are we there yet?”

“I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, Prompto, truly.”

“Aw, Iggy, where would you be without my color commentary?”

“In peace and quiet.”

“Hm. Touche.”

Ignis lets out a deep breath through his nose, staring resolutely ahead. He doesn’t mind Prompto’s complaints about the time, really. They break up the monotony of the drive, but to be honest Ignis had been hoping to just listen to some music to steel himself for whatever is coming at them. Nothing about this journey sits right to him. With Gladio gone, they’re already at a fraction of their full power, and they’re driving into the heart of uncharted imperial territory. 

So it’s going great.

The trip has been uneventful thus far, though, and for that Ignis is thankful.

They’ve been drawing ever closer to the Rock of Ravatogh on their way up the length of the continent, and it’s set Ignis on edge. Now, drawing closer to it, Ignis can’t shake the feeling that something is calling him.

There’s the intersection where he can turn onto the Ravatoghan trail and make his way to the base of the half-holy mountain. The smell of smoke is strong even from this distance, wafting across the volcanic plains. The dark rocks that stand instead of grass radiate heat even though they are far from the heart of the mountain. Some call them the dried trails of the Infernian’s blood, and Ignis almost wants to believe them now, looking at the rolling, craggy rivulets of stone in the distance.

How would it feel to walk those carven trails? What kind of pilgrimage would it be to follow the solid traces of the Infernian’s lifeblood to where his corpse is said to lay? Ignis’s skin prickles at the thought. Ravus says that Shiva lies dead at the Ghorovas Rift, but Ifrit is here in Lucis. 

Maybe this would give him the answers he needs.

Maybe this would help him not feel quite so  _ empty- _

“Hey,” Prompto says, snapping his fingers in front of Ignis’s face.

Ignis blinks and shoos him away with a scowl. “What was that for?” he demands.

“You were zoning out.”

“I was not.”

“You were swerving.”

“I was  _ not.”  _ If he does end up correcting his course a little bit, Prompto doesn’t have to know.

Prompto shrugs and leans out the window, resting his chin on his folded arms. He falls silent, and Ignis puts on a quiet radio station to guide him through the duration of the day’s driving.

The next day, they head out from their campsite early, eager to make their way further into the territory. As usual, Noctis falls asleep almost immediately upon entering the car, and Prompto fiddles with his camera.

By midday, they approach the formidable blockade that marks the road into northern Cleigne. By all rights, the place should be heavily fortified and crawling with troopers. 

But it’s wide open.

Unmanned.

“I don’t believe it,” Ignis mutters, driving through the gate. “They’re just letting us through.”

“I mean, they  _ are  _ retreating,” Prompto points out. “Maybe they just left the door open on the way out. “

Ignis taps his fingers on the wheel, frowning up at the cloudy sky before returning his gaze to the road. It’s going to rain soon for sure. He presses the button to raise the Regalia’s roof and says, “As much as I hope that’s true, Prompto, I fear we’re not that lucky. This reeks of a trap.” His frown deepens, and he adds, “A trap with Ardyn Izunia’s name all over it.”

“I doubt he’s keeping tabs on us,” Prompto says. “And, hey! Maybe it’s Ravus! He could be helping us out, right?”

The thought gives Ignis pause, but he shakes his head. “He’s heading to Altissia, remember? He means to kill Leviathan.”

“Oh, yeah.” Prompto fiddles with his camera’s lens cap for a bit as they race past looming trees. They’re a different sort than the pines and oaks of the rest of Cleigne and Duscae. These trees hang lower, spreading drooping boughs towards the still water below. In the distance, there’s a glimmer of water: the Vesperpool, surely. That’s where they need to go.

Ignis thinks back to his recollection of Jared’s notes. If the legends are true, there’s an ancient Solheim ruin in the depths of the swamp. It’s imperially held, as so many things often are, but it’s the only place known to have mythril deposits, so they don’t have much choice. If the empire knows about their dilemma with King Regis’s ship, then they’ll know where to wait for them. It’s a shame, really: Ignis would have liked to explore this place for a little while instead of sneaking or fighting the way he knows they must.

Just once, he’d like some peace and quiet.

His pulse quickens, though, at the thought of another fight. The chance to destroy more magitek troopers or daemons is entirely appealing. Anything that will avenge the fall of Lucis and Tenebrae will bring him satisfaction.

No. Not vengeance. Justice. Justice is the way of the Oracle.

“Hey, Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto?” He welcomes the conversation. It keeps him from spiraling again.

“Why does he want to kill Leviathan?”

Ignis blinks. “Who? Ravus?”

Prompto nods.

“There are a few reasons. As an imperial officer, he is duty-bound to fulfill the empire’s mission to destroy the astrals. He also…” He bites his lip, frowning at the road ahead. “He also worries for my safety.”

“Your safety?” Prompto echoes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s complicated, really. The covenants…” He tries to pick his words carefully. “They drain me each time I forge one. I give a bit of myself away whenever I accept a god’s allegiance and blessing.”  _ A bit.  _ That’s not too much of a lie, is it?

Prompto says, “He said that you were throwing your life away.”

Ignis’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “He did say that.”

“Are you dying, Ignis?”

He says it so frankly that Ignis almost steps on the brakes. Of course, the signs had been there, and maybe he’d been optimistic about how they’d be received, but he’s surprised nonetheless. Prompto’s perceptive, though; of course it’d be him.

Ignis sighs. He checks the rearview mirror: Noct still sleeps, or at least it looks like he does. Ignis isn’t the only one who knows how to lie, after all.

“Iggy?” Prompto asks, softer this time.

“Prompto, I’m not actively dying, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His gaze burns into the side of Ignis’s face. “You know, when you phrase it like that, it kinda says more than you think.”

Figures. Ignis breathes out through his nose, trying to collect himself. “Fine. Yes. My duties take a toll on me, but it is not unlike that endured by every other Oracle of my line. My plight is not unique.”

“But this stuff…waking all the gods. Fulfilling that prophecy, whatever it is-”

Ignis flinches.  _ Noct- _

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“Almost,” Ignis replies tightly.

He can feel Prompto’s eyes on him, but he ignores them. Eyes on the road. Focus. Focus. He can do this.

“Ignis.”

“I’m done having this conversation, Prompto. If I’m struggling, I will let you know.” He takes a turn perhaps more tightly than is necessary. “I’m handling it.”

Prompto, in his peripheral vision, deflates. “Sure, Iggy,” he says, and that’s the end of it.

They fall silent.

They make it to the Vesperpool not long after - and for that Ignis is thankful, for Prompto’s sadness is nearly palpable - and Ignis pulls into a parking space. Noct wakes up, thanks to whatever preternatural ability he has that allows him to just know when journeys are over. He asks if he missed anything, and Prompto and Ignis both say no with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

Noct looks between them, narrows his eyes, and then shrugs. “Let’s go, then.”

Ignis leads them into the marshes around the Vesperpool. They’re dark, and stinking, and full of bugs. Maybe in the daylight or a happier time they’d be pleasant, but Ignis’s isn’t in the mood to enjoy them. There’s work to be done, and futures to forget. Nothing matters but the mission.

_ Altissia,  _ he reminds himself.  _ Remember how close we are to Altissia. _

He knows there’s trouble before he sees him. The sinking feeling in his stomach only grows the more he walks, and he brings it up to the other two. He recognizes the darkness in the back of his mind enough to be sure. “Izunia,” he murmurs, and Noct looks at him sharply.

“Really?”

Ignis nods. “Really.”

“Shit,” Prompto mutters.

The three of them carefully make their way down the path, stepping through puddles and over branches, and the darkness looms ahead. They pass through a particularly thick tangle of branches, and suddenly-

There he is.

He’s smiling.

Noct steps forward. “Chancellor Izunia.”

“Prince Noctis.” His gaze slides to Ignis. “Prince Ignis.” Another pause. “And the pet soldier. But you’re missing one, I believe.”

“We get by,” Noct says coolly, “and his name is Prompto.”

A soft chuckle escapes from Ardyn’s upturned lips. “Apologies, Your Highness.” He gives an exaggerated bow, looking from Noct to Ignis and back again. “And Your Highness.”

“Can we help you?” Ignis asks.

Ardyn shakes his head. “More like whether I can help you, my dear Oracle.”

Prompto flinches beside Ignis. “Don’t say it,” he says softly, more to himself than to Ardyn. The air crackles with the suggestion of violence, like the fabric of reality around Prompto’s hand is about to split to allow his pistol a way into the world. But no burst of bright sparks heralds the weapon’s arrival, and Prompto just narrows his eyes.

“Come along, then,” Ardyn calls, and he gestures further into the trees. “You have need of mythril, and I happen to have access to the place where you can find it!”

“Why are you helping us?” Noct asks.

Ignis adds, “What do you stand to gain by letting us go to Altissia?”

“There’s a peace to be made, my friend, and a family reunion as well!” Ardyn reaches out and claps Ignis on the shoulder, but his fingers dig in instead of releasing him afterwards.

Ignis jerks out of Ardyn’s grip. His shoulder feels too hot where the chancellor’s hand was, as if he’s burned straight through his uniform. It clashes in the most ugly way with the heavy, cold drip of darkness down his spine. “Don’t touch me,” he warns.

“My dear Oracle, I was only guiding you along!” Ardyn simpers. “The way is perilous indeed, and your steps seem quite unsure. Unsteady on your feet?”

Noct shoulders his way between Ardyn and Ignis, radiating static electricity. “Don’t touch him,” he orders, “or I  _ will  _ finish this war right now.”

Ardyn’s smile only grows. “Charming,” he purrs, and he strides off ahead of them. “With what army, Your Majesty?”

Silently, Noct glares daggers at Ardyn’s back. At Ignis’s other side, Prompto conjures his pistol - his newest one, imbued with the power to kill any foe in a single shot if he’s lucky - and levels it at Ardyn’s head. “Say the word, Iggy,” he says quietly. 

Ignis puts his hand up, touching Prompto’s wrist gently. “Not yet,” he says. “For now, we follow him.”

“If he makes another move towards you…” Noct warns, voice trailing off in a low growl. The implicit threat is more terrifying than any that he could have said. 

Something in the intensity of his snarl sends Ignis’s thoughts spiraling into white noise. It must be the magic Noct’s giving off, filling his awareness with the threat of a lightning strike. He shivers and hopes it looks like the rain is making him do it. When he finds his voice, he says, “He won’t. I have you two.”

Prompto nods, and he keeps his pistol out. 

“Stay close to me,” Noct orders.

Ignis nods and lets the two of them lead him through the Vesperpool on Ardyn’s heels. Prompto walks in front of him, gun pointed at the ground but clearly ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble. Noct covers their backs, and occasionally his knuckles brush against Ignis’s spine to urge him onwards.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but Ignis relishes the contact. It keeps him grounded; it reminds him that there is more in the world than just darkness. With Ardyn’s presence so close, he can hardly focus, but the residual light spilling from Noctis is enough to bolster his own, and together they follow Ardyn through the swamp.

It doesn’t take too long until crumbling stone walls start emerging from the swamp. They weave their way around them, following Ardyn towards what resolves itself into a hulking, low fortress among the trees. It’s covered in vines and moss and darkness, looming over them all. Ignis stares at it, and he feels...strange. This place is older than most buildings he’s ever seen; it exudes a form of magic he’s not yet known.

Ardyn stops before the walls that lead into the fortress. Other imperial soldiers wait there as well, holding rifles in their metal-scaled hands. Ardyn spreads his hands before him and says, “I’ll not be your guide for this venture, unfortunately. Chancellors aren’t built for fighting.” He gestures further ahead to where a single figure waits before the ruins. “You’ll be accompanied by our wonderful commodore here.” 

It’s Highwind. Ignis recognizes her by the aura of her magitek lance. It’d be a beautiful weapon if not for the red miasma that floats from it in a noxious cloud. She tilts her head to the side, studying them, but comes no closer. Ignis is glad for it; he’s not sure how much more daemonic energy he’d be able to tolerate this close to him.

Ardyn calls out to her, “These are the recruits you’ll be training! I trust that you’ll show them exactly what the empire has to offer, yes?”

She waves a hand idly in dismissal.

“I leave them to you, then!” he announces with a flourish. With a roguish grin on his lips, he turns back to the three of them and bows a little bit. “On your way, recruits. That mythril won’t claim itself.”

“Right,” Noct says, brushing past Ardyn. He takes Ignis by the wrist and tugs him gently along. “Thanks for all the help.”

“A pleasure, Your Highness.”

“Yeah, sure,” Noct mutters, pulling Ignis still. 

The three of them approach Aranea with caution. It’s not been long since last they met, after all, and on far more violent terms. Her mask tilts up and down as she looks them over. She makes a sound that might be a laugh, but it’s hard to tell through her metallic helmet. “Nice cover, prince.”

Noct makes a noncommittal noise.

She waves her hand lazily. “At ease. I’m not here to kill you. No hostilities, and no hard feelings, yeah?”

Ignis frowns. “Commodore-”

“Call me Aranea,” she tells them. “I’m not eager to be listening to you guys call me Commodore the whole damn time.”

“Then you can stop calling me Highness,” Noct says in return. “If anything, that’s kind of more personal anyway.”

Hm. Well, only Ignis really calls him Highness, but that’s neither here nor there.

Aranea points a thumb over her shoulder to the hulking ruins behind them. “So an entrance opened up over there. We’ve been sitting here all day waiting for you, and it only just did that.”

Prompto folds his arms. “And you want to send us in there to check out the mysteriously opening stone wall?”

“She’s coming with us,” Noct points out. “So it’s her head, too.”

“Exactly. Come on. We’re wasting time. I don’t know how much longer that thing’s going to stay open.” She stalks off without another word, hardly stopping when the stone path before her becomes covered in brackish water that’s risen in the Vesperpool. Her long skirt brushes along the water’s surface, staining her red imperial insignia a deeper crimson. 

Noct looks at each of them. “Do we trust her?” he asks.

Ignis shrugs. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

“Mm.” Noct rolls one of his shoulders and heads into the water, 

Ignis makes to follow, but a chill runs down his spine. It feels like the darkness behind him is focused. Like it’s watching him. Like it’s waiting. Ignis looks back one more time, and he’s not disappointed: Ardyn watches him from his spot outside of the ruins, flanked by impassive magitek troopers. He tilts his head, and the troopers mirror the movement, all staring directly at him. 

For the first time in a while Ignis recalls his dream from Galdin Quay, and how the darkness had laughed at him from afar.

Ardyn Izunia smiles, tips his hat, and wanders off among the trees.

Ignis clenches his fists at his sides, and briefly the golden light inside of him rises up in retaliation, threatening war. The parts of him the once held gods thrum with the force of their emptiness, desperate to consume and destroy and  _ heal. _

“Iggy! You coming?”

He looks over his shoulder. Prompto’s waiting on the stairs, twirling his pistol around his fingers. “Yes, Prompto, of course,” he says, putting on a smile, and he forges through the shallow water to meet his guard. “Sorry. Just distracted.”

“Doing okay?”

Ignis frowns. “I’ll let you know, Prompto,” he says quietly, and he urges him up the stairs. The other two are waiting at the top, standing just before a rectangular hole carved into the dark stone of the ruins. When Ignis peers inside, he sees only stairs. 

“Shall we?” Aranea asks.

Noct shrugs.

She rolls her eyes. “Talkative bunch,” she mutters, and she heads into the ruins.

The rest of them follow suit, and quickly, they descend into full darkness, forgoing the meager fading light of the moon and stars for the total night brought on by the heavy stone all around him. They flick on their chest lamps and carefully make their way down the stairs, keeping an eye out for any steps that may have crumbled over the endless eons this place has stood for.

“Hey, what if this closes behind us and never opens again?”

“Then we die, I suppose,” Ignis replies drily. “What do you want me to say, Prompto? You seem to have made up your mind about how deadly this place is.” It is, of course. Already, he can sense the rising miasma of darkness from the ruins below. It swells in force even as Ardyn’s poisoned presence recedes. Ignis isn’t sure which version of pain he’d rather have: the dread of facing many foes, or the fact that one man is enough to surpass them all.

“These stairs are never gonna end,” Prompto complains. “We’re going to die down here.”

“Underground we go for the duration of this, then,” Ignis sighs. He supposes it was too much to ask for them to go into the higher levels of ruins rather than the deepest depths. 

“Why is it always underground?”

“People like to put valuable stuff underground. I dunno, Prom. Sorry my family likes to put their tombs in inconvenient places.”

“This isn’t even a tomb, though.”

Noctis says, “Actually-”

Aranea interjects, “Do we really need the history lesson?”

They fall silent and continue trudging down the stairs. She’s got an effect on them for sure. Ignis isn’t sure he likes it. She’s got an odd aura to her, and it’s not just her magitek lance.

Noct, behind Ignis on the stairs, sighs, “I won’t be able to summon Titan or Ramuh in here. They’ll never reach underground.”

“Titan’s god of the  _ earth,  _ dude,” Prompto protests.

“Nah, but he’s more of a ‘throw and punch things’ sort of guy than ‘burrowing underground to kill things for me’ sort of guy, you know?”

“Guy,” Prompto repeats, “like you’re not talking about the literal god of the earth.”

Noct makes a noncommittal noise.

Aranea speaks up carefully. “Thought the Archaean was dead.”

“You tell me,” Noct says, and there’s a bit of a bite to his tone. “Your people were the ones who claimed they did it.”

“I’m no god killer,” she says, and she speeds up, walking purposefully down the stairs. Her heels click ominously against the ancient stones. “Dragoons don’t hunt the astrals. That’s not our deal.”

“So what is your deal?” Prompto asks curiously. He trots after her, not daring to keep pace but trailing just behind her.

“Search and rescue. Or it was, at least. Now I’m an officer. Simple as that.”

“You’re not very talkative.”

“You’re not exactly being forthcoming either, Blondie. Do you blame me?”

Ignis looks at Noct over his shoulder and says, “She has a point.”

Noct shrugs. 

As it turns out, Steyliff Grove is crawling with daemons.

Ignis had expected it; he can feel them all around him, suffusing every fiber of his being with the craving to flee or heal, but something about the omnipresent magitek lance in Aranea’s hand has thrown him off. The first wave catches them off guard in the second room they find after the stairs end.

It turns out that the four of them work quite well together, enemies or not.

“Behind you, Commodore,” Ignis calls, and he plunges his daggers into the eye sockets of the skeleton. It chatters angrily at him, but when he calls ice to the blades, it worms its way between the cracks in the ancient skull. The skeleton explodes into bone shards under Ignis’s hands, sending icy shrapnel in every direction. Ignis winces when one of the shards catches him on the cheek, but he can’t find it in himself to mind.

Prompto yells and fires off a volley of shots; some whistle through the shifting fabric of the necromancer’s robes, impacting the smooth stone of the wall with sharp cracks. More shrapnel flies through the air, and Ignis hears the answering hisses of the others as they’re hit with it. 

Ignis closes his eyes and sends out a pulse of light to soothe any of those small wounds. It hurts just a bit, but he ignores it. He can’t let small wounds stop them from reaching their goal.

Noct meets his eyes after he does it, though, and there’s something concerned and disappointed brewing in them. So he noticed, then.

There’s no time to ask him about it. Ignis breaks their gaze, turns, and impales a reaper on the bladed end of his spear.

This is what he needed. Focus. Battle. Fun.

“Your accent is unique,” Aranea tells him once they’re done and about to head further into the ruins.

“Is it?” Ignis asks.

“For a Lucian, at least. Know anyone in Tenebrae?”

Ignis tilts his head, studying her as well as he can manage. Behind the mask, her eyes glitter bright green, but other than that he cannot make out her features. She’s unreadable. “None,” he lies. “Insomnia has always been home, and I can’t say we had many tourists from Niflheim.”

She doesn’t move for several long moments. Then she shrugs, twirls her poisonous spear in her hand, and moves on without another word.

Ignis stares after her, frowning.

The battles don’t cease: wave after wave of daemons come to meet them as they forge a path through the ruins. By the end of their fourth encounter, Prompto bends over, hands on his knees, and says, “I dunno, man. Places like this always give me the creeps. I can’t ever catch my breath properly.” He presses a hand to his side. “This thing’s not healing up like it usually does. The potion isn’t helping.”

Noct suggests, “Try an elixir.”

Prompto snaps his fingers - they’re a little bloody, which is vaguely concerning - and says, “Yes. Totally.”

He pulls out an elixir, twirls it in his hands, and crushes it before his face.

It explodes.

“Gods,” Ignis breathes, and he puts a hand over his mouth. “Is that the elixir-”

“That I  _ shook!”  _ Noct finishes, and he barks out another laugh. “Oh my gods, you should have seen your face!”

“Noct,” Prompto whines, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. 

“I gave that to you  _ ages  _ ago!” Noct crows, doubling over to clutch at his stomach. “How did you not use it yet?”

“I was  _ careful!”  _ Prompto protests, and he makes an attempt to look stern, but Ignis is pretty sure the effect is ruined by the way the elixir drips off the tip of his nose. “I was saving this for a rainy day,” he adds mournfully. 

Ignis offers, “At least you didn’t try to drink it, Prompto.”

Prompto throws his head back and groans. The sound melds wonderfully with the higher music of Noct’s laughter.

“Are we done?” Aranea asks, but when Ignis chances a look over at her, he swears he can catch a glimpse of a smile behind the dragoon mask.

“One more thing, if you’ll humor us, Commodore,” Ignis says, holding up a finger. He looks at Prompto. “Did it work, at least?”

“Yeah,” Prompto grouses, glaring at Ignis from beneath the lank fall of his hair. “I feel great.”

“Then we’d best be on our way.”

“Fuck you guys.”

“Language,” Ignis chides, and Noct chuckles.

“Worth it,” he snickers, and he nudges Ignis with his shoulder. “Paid off.”

Ignis can’t help but smile down at him. “Indeed.”

“Hey.” Aranea’s already further ahead, crouching in battle stance. “Look alive.”

Something’s lit up down the hall, casting pale blue shapes across the stone floor. Ignis approaches the doorway cautiously, extending his hand to pull a dagger from the world between realities. The weight of it is welcome in his grasp. He waves a hand over Prompto as he goes, clearing the nonmagical remnants of the elixir from his hair and clothes. It pulls from his low reserves of light, but he swallows around the pain and keeps moving.

And then he turns the corner, and he forgets all about the pain.

“What?” Prompto blurts, and then, “Look up!”

Aranea stops short, and she tilts up the visor of her helmet to stare up at the ceiling. Ignis can’t make out her features in the shadowed depths of this tomb, but he can see a noble profile on her, and the way her lips are parted in awe. “I must be dreaming.”

No.

Ignis disagrees. This place is more exquisite than a dream. Dreams have always terrified him and told him far more than he cares to know. He’d be happy to never dream again. But this room, here deep beneath the earth, is something else entirely. And it’s real. 

The ceiling...it’s made of water.

It should be the middle of the night by now, but still the cavern gives off its own ethereal light. This is an old magic, Ignis knows, and far beyond his own control. It speaks of something older than the Crystal or the Oracles, of something archaic and barely divine. Humans made this, Ignis knows, and he fears the ones that did.

And he envies them.

Noct turns back to him, eyes wide with wonder. The undulating light of the ceiling turns his black hair into a nighttime sea, and the starlight blue of his eyes is a color Ignis has never seen before. Impossible. Arcane.

“Beautiful beyond words,” Ignis breathes. 

“Right?” Noct asks with a ghost of a smile. He turns away again, stepping further into the light.

Ignis stares up at the impossible ceiling. It’s nothing like stars, he thinks, but it did its job well enough.

Their path through the ruins takes them into crumbling chambers and down more stairs, but always they end up back in the central chamber with its haunting blue light. Each time, the sense of foreboding in Ignis’s heart grows. Something is waiting for them here, and it’s not just the mythril.

Eventually, they reach the ground level. Just before they reenter the atrium with its shifting, fluid ceiling, Noct points out that there are elemental deposits in the ground. He runs to each of them, pulling the earth’s magic from them with a single outstretched hand. Aranea watches quietly and asks Prompto what Noct’s doing. Prompto explains in a low voice, gesturing wildly, and she nods.

“Take a break?” Noct suggests once he’s done. “It’ll take me a little while to put this energy into the flasks.” He pulls one from the armiger and runs his finger along the glassy side of it, and flames lick at his fingertip as he goes. “We can eat some snacks and just...rest. I don’t know what waits in there but I know we’re not going to like it.”

“What if it’s just the mythril?” Prompto asks hopefully.

“In my experience, buddy, it’s never  _ just  _ the mythril,” Aranea says, and she settles herself down on the broken husk of a long-fallen column. She lets her spear dissolve into the ether where she keeps it, and immediately Ignis feels more at ease. She looks around at all of them, then says, “Look, you standing over me has got me antsy. Sit down or we keep moving.”

They sit.

For a time, they sit in silence. Noct kicks together some old kindling - some of it might have been someone’s clothes once, but none of them make any mention of it - and casts a quick flame spell across his fingers to set it ablaze. The fire won’t last for long, but it’ll be enough to give them a brief respite and let Noct prepare the spells. Noct sets the flasks out before himself in a line, carefully dividing them into three groups to represent each element. He sets to work enchanting the ice ones first, holding his hand out over them as frost crackles across his fingertips.

Ignis is almost tempted to join him and spread his hands across the glass of the flasks. It would feel like home, surely, to do something like that. The covenant in his heart urges him to do it, but that would end up distracting Noct. Ignis is content to stay here and watch from afar. The magic cools the air enough to turn their breath to clouds, and Ignis thinks he might even see Aranea tuck her hands into the folds of her skirt. Though it’s not even him performing the magic, Ignis preens a bit. That’s Noct’s power that’s doing that. His king. His friend.

Noct moves on to the fire flasks after that, and then the lightning ones. Even though the magic is under control, Ignis can’t help but flinch at the flashes of contained electricity from Noct’s fingers. The mere sight has his heart racing, threatening to stutter out of rhythm or lose its beat entirely. Each flash reminds him of the visions he couldn’t stop, and of the way he’d been reduced to instincts and desperation, clawing his way towards salvation like an animal.

He never wants to lose control like that again.

When he’s done, Noct carefully sends all of the flasks back into the armory, quietly telling them that they can all claim whichever ones they want. Ignis thanks him and selects a few fire and ice flasks for himself, and Prompto takes some of the lightning ones. After a few moments of silence, the armory shifts in their hearts again, and a single fire flask shifts away from them and into a section of their liminal space, far, far, away from here.

_ Gladio. _

So he’s still alive.

None of them say anything, but the relief on Prompto and Noct’s faces is evidence enough: they felt it too. Gladio’s safe for now.

“You’ve got a familiar look to you, y’know,” Aranea says at last, looking at Prompto. Her eyes gleam from behind her mask. “I feel like you look just like someone I know.”

“From...work?” Prompto asks, and the crack in his voice betrays his nervousness.

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.” She shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe you’ve just got one of those faces.”

Noct squints at Prompto. “I dunno. There aren’t many people who look like him in Insomnia.”

If anything, Prompto’s face gets whiter, with the firelight picking out the highlights in his expression. He laughs, “Maybe you just haven’t been looking in the right places, Noct. All the Lucian nobles are those old families; they all look the same. There’s more variety in the common folks.”

“We went to the same high school, Prompto.”

Prompto shrugs. “You never talked to anyone else.”

“I have  _ eyes.”  _

“Speaking of familiar faces,” Aranea says, and she pivots in her seat, looking straight at Ignis. He can feel the weight of her gaze from behind the shadows of her mask. “Listen, I won’t tell anyone. But it’s hard not to recognize the crown prince of Tenebrae.” 

Beside him, Noct and Prompto stiffen. Prompto clenches his fist, and bullets spill from between his fingers. They clatter to the ground with a disturbingly loud music in the silence of the tomb, bursting back into the armory as Prompto forgets them once more. Noct leans forward, radiating static, and once more the low growl rumbles out from his chest, threatening war.

Ignis holds up his hand to them, halting them where they sit. He can feel the tension in them even from here, as if they’d already be attacking if not for Ignis’s silent order. It’s a uniquely intoxicating realization, truly, of the power he holds over them right now. Something inside him purrs at the thought of wielding the power of the Chosen King through words and gestures alone. Gods and kings at his feet, heeding his every command, if only he could fill the void in his heart-

Wait.

That’s not the point.

Highwind.

“How did you know?” he asks her lowly.

Aranea takes off her helmet at last, holding it in her lap with both hands. She turns it carefully, poking her thumbs through the steel slats where her eyes would normally be. She’s got an austere sort of beauty, especially in the low light of the tomb, with her silver hair falling down onto her forehead and her eyes gleaming dark green. She raises her gaze to meet Ignis’s, raising a silver eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were still alive.”

“That was the point.” He leans forward. “I’ll ask again: how did you know?”

“The accent, for one. The clothes. Your face. You’re not exactly subtle, Your Highness, and relying on the fact that the Lucian continent barely knows your face is a gutsy move.” She shrugs. “I’m almost impressed.”

Ignis huffs out a bit of a laugh. “You flatter me.”

“Don’t get used to it.” The corner of her mouth twitches up into something like a grin; it makes her eyes shine. Ignis almost forgets she’s imperial for a moment, and then she says, “We all assumed you died with your mother. Fenestala Manor burned.”

Ah.

“You were there?” he asks tightly. Did she see him run? Did she see him leave his family behind to save his own skin?

Prompto shifts uncomfortably in his peripheral vision. “We can leave if you want, Ignis. If you don’t want us to, y’know, hear...”

Ignis shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. My past is no secret to you two. You deserve to hear anything she has to say.” Especially Noct. His king should know. He was there, after all, when Tenebrae burned. He looks back at Aranea and says, “Tell me what you know.” Maybe she can fill in the gaps in his memory where the covenants took fragments of him away and replaced them with emptiness.

She sits back and cracks her knuckles. “It’s a hell of a story. I was a trainee, you know. Eighteen years old, just about to earn my armor. I was so eager to get away from the small scale stuff. You know, little missions to find a missing child or break up fights. Those were important, of course, but everyone wants to be a hero.” She shrugs. “I did, at least. Nothing seemed better than getting the chance to save the royal family of Tenebrae. Especially when you’re a dragoon.”

“Why?” Prompto asks.

She regards him with a wry grin. “Don’t you know? Dragoons used to be elites. Divine warriors, back in the day. We were Bahamut’s treasured pets, until we weren’t. Learned some tricks from him, though.”

Prompto’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Would I lie?” She pauses, then holds up a finger. “Don’t answer that.” 

“So you still follow the Draconian?”

“Not like he’s around to be followed. The Messengers used to join us sometimes; they liked helping humans. But your Lucian kings took all the draconic might for themselves, and we’re just left with the scraps.” She snorts and picks at the spikes on her helmet’s dragon tail. “Look at us. A bunch of divine enforcers turned guns for hire.”

Noct leans forward. “So Tenebrae did that to you.”

“Yeah.” She blinks at the fire for a moment, then continues, “So the call went out. For a bit, all we knew was that the empire had moved in. That wasn’t really a concern, so we were slow to respond. The empire had owned Tenebrae for years, so it makes sense that they’d turn up at the Manor. But...but we were wrong.

“By the time we got there, Prince Ravus and Princess Lunafreya were in captivity. You and the queen were gone. There was no sign of your body, and all that was left of Queen Sylva was ashes.” She frowns. “Though I guess we thought that’s what happened to you too.”

Ignis nods solemnly. “And you arrived at a battle that had already been lost.”

“There was nothing we could do. They won. Most of the dragoons are gone now.”

“Gone?” Ignis repeats. They’d been a mighty force of legend for some time. 

Aranea nods, staring into the firelight. “In hiding or dead. Not everyone wanted to join the empire when they took Tenebrae.”

“But why’d you come to Tenebrae? Why expose yourselves?” Prompto asks, leaning forward. “Doesn’t seem strategically sound.”

“You’re not old enough to be lecturing me on what’s strategically sound, Blondie. But good try.” Aranea brushes her hair out of her face. “We came to Tenebrae when the empire was taking it, yes. We might not be divine servants anymore, but we still have loyalty to the Oracle.” She pauses, then scowls. “Or we did. Queen Sylva was the last queen I served.”

“Not even Lunafreya?”

“Well, she’s not the Oracle, is she? Or the queen, for that matter.” She eyes Ignis carefully. “And, no offense, but I hardly know you.”

Ignis leans back a bit. “You have a point,” he admits. 

With a more considering tone, Aranea says, “But I do know your brother. You look like him, you know.”

Ignis looks down at himself. “Is it the outfit?”

“Something like that.” She adjusts a strap on her boot. “But it’s more than that. Family resemblance and all that. You all carry yourselves like you’re powerful, though I guess that’s because you are.” She bites at her lip, and a ghost of a smile makes its way across her face. “Hope you don’t mind if I tell you I think your brother’s a prick.”

Prompto and Noct snort in unison.

Ignis stifles a laugh, smiling down at his hands. “No offense taken. He hates the empire.”

“Sure seems like it. He hides it well enough to just seem - what’s the word? Aloof, maybe. But it’s easy enough to recognize yourself in other people.” Aranea laughs a little bit, and it echoes softly around the crypt. “I see it in your sister, too, you know.”

“You know Lunafreya?”

“Hard not to. She’s the Oracle, after all.” She pauses. “Or is it still you?”

Ignis nods. The cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, so as long as they’re revealing their deepest secrets he might as well provide one of his own. “It is.”

“Luna’s a good actress, then.”

Ignis asks, “You know her by her nickname?”

Aranea raises an eyebrow. “I might.”

Fascinating.

“Is she well taken care of?”

“As well as she can be, or as well as she lets me, when I’m around.” Aranea tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “She’s strong.”

“Of course she is. She always has been.” Luna was the one who wrestled with the Messengers for fun. She’s the one who lives a lie for her brother’s sake. Gods, but he misses her. He stands before the lump in his throat spills over into tears and says, “I think we’ve all had a good rest.”

Noct and Prompto jump to their feet to flank him. Noct kicks at the dying embers of their fire, and ice lashes out from the tip of his boot to extinguish them. “Yeah. Totally.”

Ignis conjures up his spear out of nervousness, taking solace in the weight of the weapon. 

“You do aerials too?” Aranea twirls her magitek lance, grinning at him. “We can make a dragoon of you yet, Your Highness. There’s nothing better than that rush. You must’ve seen our demonstrations back when you were a kid.”

“Thought we’d agreed not to use titles, Commodore,” Ignis says with a wry smile.

Aranea almost laughs. “Old habits die hard.”

“But yes, I do recall the air shows.” There had been nothing to match the grace of the dragoons above Fenestala Manor, demonstrating their gods-given strength above the soaring arches and columns of his home. “Maybe I saw you.” He pauses, then admits, “I wanted to learn, you know.”

“Eh. There’s still time.” Aranea steps into the atrium, and the unreal light of the ceiling bathes her in blue. “Later.”

“Later,” Ignis agrees, and he follows her into the light.

Something screeches.

It’s unbearably loud in the silence of Steyliff Grove, and it echoes into the depths of Ignis’s heart.  _ Danger,  _ his light warns.  _ Danger. _

And the danger arrives.

A massive, winged creature slams down on the bridge just above them, leaps into the air, and then lands in a rush of air and scales and claws before them. It regards them with reptilian, savage eyes and screeches again.

“Are you kidding me?” Aranea cries, stepping backwards. “That’s a quetzalcoatl!”

“A  _ what?”  _ Prompto asks, already sending a volley of shots towards the creature.

“Doesn’t matter what it is!” Noct growls. “Let’s take it out!”

So it begins.

The four of them unleash a concerted assault on the quetzalcoatl. Prompto fires at its face while Ignis goes for the legs. Noct warps all around, slashing at its wings, and then its 

Aranea seems to be in her element now. Without the low ceilings of the rest of the fortress to hinder her movements, she’s able to dance through the air, jumping up to bridges and balconies only to slam down on the beast’s back. She keeps it from flying too far out of their reach, and Ignis silently thanks her for that. He knows he’s not nearly skilled enough to control a foe from the air like that.

The tail of the beast catches him in the chest once, throwing him through the air to slam into a pillar. It knocks the wind out of Ignis and shatters more than a few bones as well. All Ignis manages is a breathless “Highness” before he slumps against the crumbling stone. He doesn’t have the energy or ability to pluck an elixir from the armory.

Noct’s at his side in a heartbeat, forcing a hi-elixir into Ignis’s hands. “Here,” he murmurs, leaving his sword on the ground beside him. “Take this.”

“I-” He doesn’t have the strength. He never does.

Something glints in Noct’s eyes - pain? regret? - and he shushes Ignis gently. “Okay.” And he closes his hands around Ignis’s, crushing the bottle for him, and the magic washes over them both. Ignis takes another breath, relishing air that does not come to him through pierced lungs, and Noct’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “Better?”

Ignis nods and levers himself up, handing Noct’s sword to him. “Better.” He smiles back. “No slacking off, Highness.”

“Never.” Noct winks - did he just wink? - and warps off again. When next Ignis sees him, he’s got his blade buried between the quetzalcoatl’s scales, yelling a challenge.

Ignis conjures his blades again, collects himself, and moves in to strike once more.

So it continues.

The fight draws on in a similar way. Someone strikes, someone gets hurt, someone helps them up again. Sometimes it’s Prompto. Other times, it’s Aranea. Sometimes it’s all of them. 

“Your Highness!”

Ignis is used to letting Noct be the prince, but for some reason the title in Aranea’s voice rings through the golden light in his heart. He turns to her, absently launching a dagger at the quetzalcoatl’s underbelly as he does it. “Aranea?”

“Time to learn!” Aranea bellows. “Noctis, Prompto, get ready. Launch us on three.”

The four of them bunch up together, pairing off with their nearest counterpart. Prompto bends to lend a hand to Aranea, and Noct nods to Ignis before offering his hands for Ignis to leap from. 

“One!”

The quetzalcoatl screeches.

“Two!”

Ignis meets Noct’s eyes, and he nearly falters.

“Three!”

In a single fluid movement, the two of them step into their partners’ hands. Noct launches Ignis, and Prompto helps Aranea; together, they leap into the sky, soaring far above the beast below.

Aranea conjures the Stoss spear with its daemonic energy spilling into the air around them.

Ignis conjures the Trident.

It’s not his first choice of weapon and it’s certainly not the safest one, but nothing feels more right to juxtapose the thrumming darkness of the Stoss spear in Aranea’s hand. It gleams gold in the air, defying the azure tint that the ceiling casts across everything in favor of generating its own pure light.

At the apex, they hang for impossible seconds, buoyed by whatever magic is inherent to their bones. Aranea reaches out her hand to him, and Ignis takes it. They take one step in the air, and then another, and suddenly Ignis understands. 

He twirls the Trident in his hands, aims it at the beast below, and lets himself fall.

The two of them plunge towards the quetzalcoatl, twin bullets rocketing towards their target. They spiral around each other as they descend, flashing red and black and white and gold, and  _ gods,  _ Ignis never wants this moment to end.

And then they strike at the same second, within fractions of a heartbeat.

Their weapons pierce each of the creature’s beady eyes. The weight of their descent forces the quetzalcoatl’s head to the ground, and with each second, the blades only sink further. The damage of it sinks into Ignis’s bones as the Trident draws its strength from him in order to destroy the creature it bites. Ignis grits his teeth and waits, focusing on the kill instead of the agony of it.

And then, slowly, the creature falls still.

So it ends.

Ignis lets the Trident dissolve from his grasp and jumps down from the quetzalcoatl’s head. Aranea follows him down.

Noct looks them up and down, breathless in his own right. “That went well.”

“Woo!” Prompto cheers, and he scampers off away from the corpse of their foe. “Let’s find the mythril!”

Aranea pats Ignis on the back. “Are you Oracles always fighters?”

Ignis shrugs. “Some of us, I suppose.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known one of your kind to be a killer.”

_ Killer. _

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Ignis asks lightly, but inside all he can think is  _ killer killer killer- _

What happened to healing?

Aranea wanders off with a little laugh. “Welcome to the ranks, dragoon. Let’s get this mythril and get the hell out.”

As it turns out, they cannot get the hell out.

The door’s closed.

Prompto leans forward, knocking his head mournfully against the stone. “So daytime closes it,” he groans. “And it’s the middle of the day.”

“So we’re stuck here?” Noct asks.

Aranea banishes her spear to whatever eldritch realm she keeps it in and pushes her helmet’s visor up and out of her face. “Seems like it, Your Royal Highness. Settle in for a wait, I guess.”

“What about daemons?” Prompto asks. “We’ll never be able to sleep if they’re around. Can’t even kill time right.”

The mere mention of sleep has Ignis longing for the comfort of a good rest. Caem has spoiled him. They’ve been fighting for hours now. He can feel dirt and blood on his skin where magic can’t quite reach it, and he’s tired to the bone. The oppressive daemonic nature of this place has nearly suffocated his already flagging reserves of golden light. It just won’t do. He’s already missing half of it; he can’t afford to not have the rest of it replenished.

It’s his own fault, of course. He was the one who insisted on healing the refugees and giving a blessing to Gladio. Those had been necessary sacrifices, though.

Right?

Oh. He’d tried to heal his leg too. Ignis scowls and adjusts his stance. He doesn’t like standing on these stairs; they put his leg at a frustrating angle. “Might I suggest that we go back inside?” he asks.

“And get attacked all over again? I don’t think so.”

“Prompto, the daemons aren’t back yet. They won’t be back for some time.”

“Oh, yeah? And how do you know that?”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “Because I can sense them, Prompto.”

“Oh. Right.”

Aranea turns from the sealed wall, still idly tracing her fingers along the carvings there. “Can you really?” she asks.

“On occasion, yes.”

“That’s a lie.”

Ignis turns to Noct. “I’m sorry?”

“Should be. You don’t need to hide it.” Noct nods to Aranea. “She already knows who you are.”

“I-”

Noct blinks. 

Ignis turns back to Aranea. “Yes,” he admits. “It is one of my talents. Daemons seem to appear on my radar, as it were, when they are within a certain distance. It’s useful for fights.”

“I’ll say.” Aranea brushes past him on her way down the stairs. “Might as well set up camp again. You sense anything now?”

“Nothing.” Ignis follows her down. As he passes Noct, he shares a look with him that’s exasperated on his part and defiant on Noct’s.

Noct catches him by the arm. “You need to be more confident in your abilities.”

“I’m absolutely confident in them, Noct, but just because this imperial officer is friendly and shares a past with me does not mean she’s our friend.” Ignis pinches at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes to breathe. “Remember that she was picked by the chancellor himself to accompany us. There must be a reason.”

Noct scowls. “I have no idea what that guy wants.”

“None of us do, which is why we must be cautious.” He sighs. “I like Aranea. I do.”

With his eyes cast downward, Noct murmurs, “You’re right.”

Ignis nods and continues on his way, Noct at his side.

The first few hours of waiting are spent in relative silence. Prompto insists on taking a few pictures of Aranea for posterity, and she even smiles for some of them. Ignis approaches her and quietly asks if he can send a picture along with Pryna or Umbra the next time one of them visits. Maybe it’s the odd dim lighting, but he thinks he might see Aranea’s cheeks go red.

So he pockets one of Prompto’s photos and resolves to send it along to Lunafreya. She’ll be pleased, surely, and maybe a little annoyed that Aranea got to meet him before she’s seen him.

All told, it’s not the worst situation.

But by the end of a few hours, Ignis gets restless, and the filtered blue light of the atrium beyond calls to him in a way he can’t quite understand. He excuses himself quietly and makes his way out to the central chamber of Steyliff Grove.

He still can’t quite understand the magic that makes this water hang above them without falling, but he craves the knowledge of how it works. Water magic is far beyond his knowledge, especially since it’s without any battle advantage. Still, at least he’s able to admire it, and that’s far more than most people in recent history could say.

It’s calming, really, to be here.

He should have expected to hear Noct’s voice right behind him.

“What’re you doing out here?”

Ignis stares up at the ceiling. “Trying to get an idea of this magic. It’s incredible, and far older than Lucis.” He turns to continue, then stops.

When did Noct get so close?

“This place is a tomb, you know.” Noct gestures up at the ceiling. “Aranea cut me off, but we learned about this place. You did too, probably.”

“I believe I did,” Ignis admits, “Though I’ll admit I can’t remember the specifics. Regardless…” He shrugs. “Rather morbid.”

“Our crest is a skull, Ignis.”

“Your crest,” Ignis corrects.

“But you still wear it.” Noct raises his hand and taps at the skull at Ignis’s neck. His finger travels to run along the golden chain that holds it; his touch warms the metal with ease. “Why?”

Ignis swallows; his throat is too dry. “You know,” he says. “For a person whose house is associated with death, you’re warmer than I expected.”

“Avoiding the question, Specs.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know why you keep arguing that you’re not one of us, but then you wear a skull anyway.” Two of Noct’s fingers curl around the chain and tug gently, bringing Ignis rocking closer to him. “What are you afraid of?”

He’s not being held tight enough to be trapped, but Ignis can’t help but suck in a quiet gasp of air through curiously tight airways. He doesn’t dare pull away now. “I’m not afraid of anything,” he murmurs.

“That’s a lie. We’re all afraid of things.” Noct blinks up at him; the muted light from the watery ceiling turns his eyes a blue that Ignis has not yet known. “I’ll go first. I’m scared of you guys getting hurt because of me.” His other hand comes up to rest flat on Ignis’s chest.

Ignis asks, “Noct?”

“Your heart’s pounding,” Noct tells him softly. His palm is warm over Ignis’s chest.

“It does that,” Ignis replies with a little smile. He worries that it’ll start lurching out of synchronization with his body, but for once it obeys. Ignis closes his eyes, losing himself in the warmth of having Noct so close. “I know what I am,” he says. “I’m the Oracle.”

Noct gets closer, caging Ignis in against one of the pillars. “I know you are, Specs. Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“I don’t want to lose myself.”

“Lose yourself in what?”

“In you, Noct.”

“I’ve found you before, Specs,” Noct says with a lopsided smile. “Why stop now?” 

He can hear the question in every heartbeat Noct takes to lean closer.  _ Now? Now? Now?  _ Noct’s giving him an easy out; he’s giving him a loophole to escape through if this is truly not what he wants.

Ignis wants this.

Noct tilts his face up just a little bit, and his lips part infinitesimally. An invitation, maybe.

Ignis takes it.

He leans down, finds Noct’s cheek with one hand, and kisses him.

And Noct kisses him back.

It’s chaste at first, with both of them exploring the boundaries of each other, learning what it feels like to have the other so close. But Noct’s hand finds its way up to wrap around the back of Ignis’s neck, tugging him down just a little more. 

They both seem to realize how much they’ve been wanting this.

Their kisses turn open-mouthed. Ignis has never quite done this before, but Noct seems more than eager to teach him. He hums against Ignis’s mouth, and their tongues find each other in a warm slide.

The way they’re moving, it turns out that Ignis presses Noct up against a wall, desperate to get as close as possible. But Noct’s stronger, and he has been for some time, fueled by the power of gods and kings. His eyes gleam with starlight and old magic, and he flips them around. So instead, it ends up being Noct caging him in, lit by the ethereal light of the watery ceiling.

They part for air, and Ignis breathes, “I’m the Oracle.”

“You keep saying that.” Noct bites down beside Ignis’s collarbone. “I don’t think you know what you mean.”

He doesn’t. He does. Maybe it was supposed to be a justification. Maybe it was supposed to be an excuse.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. All he knows is  _ Noct, Noct, Noct- _

Ignis braces himself against the wall, and one of his legs sets up between Noct’s, though whether he did it on purpose or Noct did is anyone’s guess. Or maybe they just knew. Noct rocks down on his thigh, making a quiet sound that gets muffled into Ignis’s mouth. Ignis shifts and presses up to meet Noct, curious to see if Noct will continue making that noise. He really, truly hopes he does.

_ “Ignis,”  _ Noct groans, and that’s enough encouragement to keep Ignis going.

As he moves with Noct, Ignis realizes just how much he needs this to continue. There’s a warmth low in his stomach that goes beyond the reach of his magic, and he feels the growing heat of his need between his legs, and he rocks up for friction of his own.

“Noct,” he breathes, and Noct nips at the juncture between his jaw and neck, nosing into the skin there. He sighs, and Noct presses a kiss there.

Ignis’s legs give out beneath him, and he lowers them to the ground. He leans back against the pillar, and Noct clambers into his lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around his neck. Ignis’s hands find his hips easily, and he finds himself guiding Noct down to meet the upward rolls of his hips.

Noct’s voice from earlier filters into his awareness:  _ Why stop now? _

Why stop now, when Noct is right here and they are in a place full of a magic neither of them can wield? Why stop now, when there’s nothing to stop them?

“Noctis,” he breathes. “Noctis, I-” He can’t find the words. He can’t think of anything but this moment. 

“I know,” Noct replies, equally breathless. “Keep-” He breaks off, shuddering, and begs, “Keep going.”

He will. Of course he will.

Noct’s hand trails down from Ignis’s face, fingers skittering down his neck in a desperate search for something to grab, to hold-

He finds the necklace, and he  _ pulls. _

It’s not nearly enough to cut off Ignis’s air, but it presses the weight of the skull against his skin, metal cool but turning warmer with every breathless minute they spend together. And in Noct’s hands, here in a tomb, Ignis is reminded that everything he’s done has been for his king. Noct holds him, keeping him here, keeping him  _ his. _

“Noctis,” he groans, and it’s more of a prayer than any hymn he’s sung in a long time.

“Just let go,” Noct urges, and he grinds down on Ignis’s lap. Ignis can feel the hard line of Noct against him, and that alone is intoxicating. He’s doing this. Noct is like this - desperate, fierce - because of him. “Ignis, c’mon, I need you-”

And he pulls on the necklace again, catching Ignis’s mouth in a messy, desperate kiss.

Ignis can’t take it anymore - he whines into Noct’s mouth as he crashes over the edge, jerking up to meet Noct’s hips. He shudders at the force of the pleasure, not even caring that he’s spilling into his pants. That’s all secondary; he’s got Noct in his arms, he needs Ignis-

Noct follows soon after, rocking down onto Ignis with a soft cry that he sends into Ignis’s ear. The sensation is nearly too much for Ignis to take, but he murmurs wordless sounds into Noct’s neck, and somewhere along the way he ends up just mouthing along his skin. Noct tastes like salt and iron, and Ignis decides he’d be content to stay like this forever.

When his breathing slows and the desperate stuttering of his hips turns into slow, lazy rolls, Noct mutters, “Are we teenagers or what?” 

Ignis laughs faintly, pressing his nose into the dark mess of Noct’s hair. “Is this what most teenagers do?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah.” Noct breathes out and runs his fingers along the line of Ignis’s wrist. The touch is light, but every sensation has Ignis shuddering. “First time?”

“I can’t say that many people are interested in being romantically involved with the gods’ chosen messenger.”

“Plenty of people are,” Noct counters, “but they’re all too scared.”

“And you’re not?”

“And I’m not.”

“I thought you were still angry,” Ignis breathes. “You were avoiding me.”

Noct rubs at the back of his neck, flushing just a bit. “I was avoiding you because I didn’t know how to say anything to you, you idiot.”

“And what would you say now?”

“I’m saying I want you, Specs.” Noct pushes a lock of hair out of Ignis’s face. “If, uh. If you want to do this.”

Ignis almost laughs and says  _ we already did  _ but he supposes that’s not the answer Noct’s looking for. Instead, he says, “I want this. I do.”

And he means it.

What he doesn’t say is everything he knows he should: that they’ve known each other too long to jeopardize their friendship with a romance, that duty holds them apart; that long lives aren’t in either of their futures. 

That means nothing right now. What matters is Noctis and this beautiful, impossible dream that’s come to life around him.

Ignis catches Noct’s cheek, smiling softly when Noct turns his face and presses a kiss into the palm of his hand. “Noctis,” he murmurs. “Noctis, could I ask you to kiss me again?”

“You don’t need to ask, Specs.” And Noct leans in and kisses Ignis, far more sweetly than before. It’s lazier, and Ignis doesn’t mind. How could he?

They separate after a time, loathe as Ignis is to move. It’s getting late; they should get back to the others.

Noct grimaces and tugs at the waistband of his fatigues. “This is going to be disgusting.”

“We have all of our bags in the armory.” Ignis stretches his own hand out and retrieves his bag, immediately digging through it to find a clean set of underwear. “Come on, Noct.”

The two of them swap out their underwear for clean pairs, and Ignis banishes the dirty ones away to a dark corner of the armory where nobody else will go looking. Hopefully. The others can be curious at the least convenient times. 

And if he catches Noct staring at him while he changes, he doesn’t mind.

They head back into the main room to meet the others, hoping that they’re not too overt with their closeness. Hopefully the sounds didn’t carry too well.

The others look up when they arrive. Prompto gives a lazy salute.

Aranea’s eyes gleam with mischief, and she raises a single slender eyebrow, but she mercifully says nothing. “Sun should’ve set by now,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Finally,” Prompto groans, and he leaps to his feet. “I thought we’d never leave.”

The four of them retrace their steps through the darkened, empty rooms of Steyliff Grove and towards the miserably tall stairway. In the distance, far above them, the rectangular open doorway sheds light down on them all. It’s the moon, maybe, or the stars. 

At last.

He nearly flinches when something finds his hand, and he looks down to see that Noct’s fingers are wrapping tentatively around his own. Ignis blinks down at their hands, then up at Noct, and he finds his eyes wide and hopeful. The hand-holding, familiar as it is after years of friendship, feels different now. Better, even. 

Yes. Better.

Ignis smiles, and when Noct returns the gesture, he’s radiant.

Together, trailing behind Aranea and Prompto, they make their way into the starlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr at triplehelix!


	17. over the sea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preparations for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorter chapter, just covering all of the important stuff before Altissia! Enjoy!

Chancellor Izunia isn’t even waiting for them once they emerge from Steyliff Grove’s impossibly long staircase. All that’s left are a few remaining soldiers as well as her two main officers. Biggs and Wedge are quiet, and they don’t greet Ignis, Prompto, and Noctis, but Ignis supposes he can’t blame them. They’re Lucians, after all. The officers report to Aranea, though, that the chancellor had other work to do.

“Good riddance,” Aranea says, waving a hand. “The guy’s a creep. Get the ship ready.”

“On it, Lady A.” Biggs salutes and leads Wedge off into the scarlet-accented dropship that Aranea calls her own.

The other soldiers mill around, packing up their supplies. There are no troopers, though. Aranea apparently can’t stand the things, and Ignis can’t really blame her. Magitek soldiers are unnerving in more ways than one. Even now, thinking of them, he can hear their voices, wrong and grating in the back of his mind. Without them around, it’s far easier to concentrate, though the night air still ripples with the promise of daemonic energy. After the cloying staleness of Steyliff Grove, though, Ignis finds that this level of darkness just fades into the background of his consciousness.

Noct checks his phone as soon as they get clear, frowning down at the screen as he holds it one-handed. The other hand is still hooked underneath the edge of Ignis’s glove, and if anyone else notices it, they don’t mention it. Ignis leans over his shoulder, barely resisting the urge to press his face into Noct’s hair and breathe him in, and he asks, “Any word from Gladio?”

“No, not yet. Prompto.” He looks up. “Did he text you?”

“Uhhhh, not sure.” Prompto checks his own phone, wiping some old swamp water off of it with a grimace. “Wow, good thing we got waterproof cases for these, huh?”

“Indeed,” Ignis agrees. “Gladio?”

He shakes his head, frowning. “Nothing from him. Not even a text.” He looks up, violet-blue eyes widening. “But hey, we all felt - downstairs, y’know? The flask?”

“Yeah,” Noct agrees. “He’s probably fine.”

“Hey, boys, are we going? This train is leaving the station. Cape Caem or bust.” Aranea taps her foot on the floor of her ship, sending the metallic ring of it into the surrounding forest.

Ignis calls ahead to make sure that Monica and Dustin anticipate their arrival and don’t shoot them down just because they’re in an imperial ship. It’s tough to explain exactly why they’ve entered into a tentative half-alliance with a Nif commodore, but the two senior Crownsguard grudgingly agree that it’s for the best that they’re accompanied by someone who’s on their side. Even with the empire on the retreat, Cleigne isn’t the safest place by any means.

It takes them the entirety of that night and the following morning to make it to Caem. Even with the airship’s considerable speed and the advantage of flight, the trip still covers much of the Lucian continent.

As they approach the drop off point, Ignis approaches Aranea where she stands towards the cockpit of the ship with her arms folded. “Where do your travels take you next?”

“Mm. Back to the empire, probably.”

“If you see her…”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Take care of Luna for me,” Ignis implores. “Please.”

Aranea nods, and her sharp green eyes go soft for just a moment. “She’s doing well on her own,” she says, “but sure. Of course.”

“Thank you.” Before his mind can catch up to him and stop him, he reaches out and rests his hand on hers, letting his bare thumb find a patch of bare skin. Aranea almost flinches away, but Ignis silently implores her to stay. She does, and Ignis repays her with the slightest hint of a blessing, weaving golden light between the cords of her muscles. She hardly needs it, of course, but it seems like the thing to do, and he has never disobeyed the divine calling in his veins.

He swallows around the faint pain in his chest as the golden light leaves him.

“Payment,” he tells her before she can ask him what he’s done. “For the lesson.”

She frowns. “I can’t accept-”

“You already have.” He smiles and squeezes her hand once before letting it go. “Besides, it’s only fitting that a dragoon should hold a bit of divine blessing.”

“Don’t think that this means I’ll start calling you my king,” she warns, but she’s smiling, and they both know that she appreciates it.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ignis clears his throat, wincing when he tastes blood there, and steps back with a little half-bow of his head, light and joking. “Until next time, Commodore.”

She nods, and Ignis heads back to the others to reconvene.

The great doors to the airship crank open with a low hiss, sending sea air in with a rush. Ignis closes his eyes to let the wind blow over his face and through his hair. It’s incredibly pleasant after the muck and mustiness of Steyliff Grove, promising a portion of land untainted by magitek. It’s not home, but he looks forward to seeing Caem once more.

Prompto inches towards the edge and leans out a bit; Ignis and Noct both reach out and hold onto his shirt to steady him, and he looks back and nods to them with a shaky, breathless grin. “Not every day that you get views like this,” he tells them, snapping a few photos of Lucis from above. He’s right: the view is striking from here, capturing the distant lighthouse and the stark divide between green grass and the silver-blue mass of the sea. There was never anything quite like this in Insomnia, even at the piers by the water and the edge of the Wall.

“We’re close,” Noct says, looping his fingers into Prompto’s belt loops with one hand and checking his phone with the other. “Still no word from Gladio.”

“Mm.” It’s concerning; Gladio had a head start on them, and Taelpar Crag isn’t nearly as far as the Vesperpool; he should be back at the cabin by the water by now. Maybe he just assumes they know he’s back. Ignis can only hope. “Well, we’ll see him soon enough, Noct, or at least we’ll learn some sort of truth.”

Noct frowns down at his phone screen and tugs at Prompto’s belt loops. “Hey, come back in here. Text Iris and tell her we’re close.”

“Your phone is literally in your hand,” Prompto grouses, hopping to safety within the ship, but he pulls out his own phone anyway. “Hey, we’re landing soon, right?”

From the cockpit, Biggs affirms that they are indeed about to descend.

“On second thought, Ignis,” Aranea calls from behind him, “there’s a final test.”

Ignis looks over his shoulder. “Oh?”

She nods to the open lip of the airship, and to the ground far below. “Only one way out of here, and you’re not going to wait until we land.”

_Oh._

Well, that sounds like a challenge.

Ignis grins.

“Specs,” Noct says, laying a hand on Ignis’s forearm. “You can’t be serious.”

Ignis turns to look down at him. “I’ll be fine, Noct,” he promises. “I’ve done far more reckless things than this.”

Noct’s eyes narrow, and he reaches up, laying a thumb on Ignis’s bottom lip. Ignis almost draws away to warn Noct against displaying such affection, but then Noct withdraws his finger to show Ignis the blood that’s collected there. He raises an eyebrow and says once more, “You can’t be serious.”

Ah. So the blessing he granted to Aranea took more from him than expected. Ignis shrugs helplessly and says, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Noct mutters, but he settles for tugging on Ignis’s necklace, bringing the clasp around to the back and arranging it the way he wants. “Do it if you’re going to do it,” he says. It’s as much of a blessing as Ignis is going to get from him.

He conjures his mother’s Trident, setting the air alive with the song of its vibrations.

Aranea’s eyes widen; she must not have truly seen it in Steyliff Grove. She makes a quick movement that’s aborted halfway through, but the deepest parts of Ignis’s bones recognize it from his time in Tenebrae as a child. The dragoons had done that for his mother the queen when she had let her power shine out.

She was about to kneel to him.

Ignis smiles at her, though part of him yearns to command her to do it.

“Farewell, Aranea.” He grins at Noct and Prompto. “Gentlemen,” he says.

For a moment, it almost looks like Noct smiles back, eyes gleaming dark and dangerous.

Ignis takes a moment to cherish that.

And then he leaps.

The floor of the airship falls away above him, and Ignis twirls midair, arching backwards until he’s descending headfirst.

The last time he’d jumped out of an airship, it was to plummet into the unforgiving waters beside Angelgard. Ignis recalls it now, diving instead towards hard tarmac and dark green grass. It’s the same concept, though, or at least he hopes it is, because he’s locked himself into this situation.

The wind screams past his ears. He’s never felt so alive.

At the last second, he twists once more, feeling like one of those cats Noct likes so much, and braces his feet underneath the prongs of the Trident. The ground rushes up to meet him.

He’s ready for it.

Ignis hits the earth with full force, plunging the Trident into the earth with his full weight atop it. The impact rattles his bones, but for once his ancestral weapon does not demand any vitality from him in exchange. Ignis carefully hops off of the Trident and lands in the center of the crater he’s created.

He plucks the Trident from the ground, shaking the dirt from between its wicked prongs. Its music is a comfort now.

As he catches his breath, the scarlet airship descends to join him, and Noct and Prompto hop out to meet him. Ignis turns and trades mocking salutes with Aranea, who grins from the ship before signaling Biggs to take them back up and away.

“You’re reckless,” Noct tells him, stalking towards him.

Ignis twirls the Trident and lets it burst into starlight, reaching out to wrap his hand around Noct’s waist and pull him close. Damn the consequences; damn who sees. He wants to hold Noct like this forever, here where adrenaline makes him feel far more alive than he’s used to. “Seems as if we’ve switched roles, Highness.”

Noct snorts, “I think I’ve pulled you out of danger a few more times than you’ve saved me.”

“Perhaps,” Ignis admits, and he leans down to kiss the smile off Noct’s lips.

“Gross,” Prompto whines. “Get a room.”

Ignis smiles and kisses Noct one more time before they go.

And if it still tastes like blood between their lips, neither of them will mention it.

 

* * *

 

Gladio’s waiting for him at the cliffs when they return to Caem.

“You’re not dead,” Noct says with a lazy grin, punching him on the shoulder.

“Did ya think I would be?”

“Maybe.” Noct tilts his head, still smiling, then says, “‘Course not, Big Guy. I knew you’d come through.”

“I had a bit of help getting back, actually. Check this out.” Gladio whistles, then holds up a finger. “Just wait.”

“No,” Ignis murmurs, because he recognizes the warm feeling that comes with that whistle.

Something barks behind him, and Pryna comes running up to Gladio’s side.

“She’s been with me since I left the Crag. Helped me get home; I drove through the night without any trouble.” Gladio grins down at her. “She’s real nice.”

“She’s a Messenger, after all,” Prompto says, bending to ruffle Pryna’s ears.

Ignis smiles down at her. “Traitor,” he accuses without any real malice.

Pryna lolls her tongue out happily, accepting Prompto’s head scratches with the most pleased expression that a dog could have.

“Maybe she doesn’t like weird tombs,” Gladio suggests with a lopsided grin to match Pryna’s.

“Maybe she just took pity on you,” Ignis retorts. “She’s a good dog, and she knows a lonely person when she sees one.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“All went well, though?”

Gladio nods and looks out at the sea. “Yeah, I got what I needed.”

Noct mutters a quiet approval once more.

Something gleams red in Gladio’s eyes as he turns, though, and Ignis’s heart nearly stops.

_Wait._

“Noct, Prompto,” he hears himself say, distantly, as if from behind layers of glass. “Give me a moment with Gladio.”

Noct’s finger trails along his wrist for a moment. “You sure?”

“Quite.” He doesn’t stop looking at Gladio.

Gladio stares back.

“Fine.” Noct’s hand slips into his for a moment, squeezes it, and retreats. Ignis finds himself chasing the touch without looking, but Noct disappears as promised, muttering a quiet summons to Prompto as he goes. The two of them trudge off towards the cabin, arguing about whether any of Ignis’s tarts are left. Pryna barks and trots after them.

And then it’s just Ignis and Gladio, and the raging sea below.

Familiar, but different. Not wrong, but not quite right either.

“Ignis,” Gladio says calmly. “What’s this about?”

“Something’s different about you,” Ignis replies.

Gladio leans back against the fence, crossing his arms. “I sure hope so,” he snorts. “It’s why I left, isn’t it?”

Ignis shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”

Another burst of red glints in the amber depths of Gladio’s eyes. “You’re confused,” he says, and there’s something like a warning in his voice.

Ignis doesn’t shy away from the threat. He is a prince, and he is the Oracle of Tenebrae, and he will not be cowed.

Before Gladio can stop him, Ignis strides forward, yanks the glove off his right hand, and presses it to Gladio’s cheek.

He nearly staggers and falls, vision going bright with a light he can hardly understand.

Gladio’s full to bursting with power.

It’s not the same as Ignis’s golden light, though Ignis can see the threads of his own blessing still woven between the fibers of Gladio’s soul. There’s something more in there, thrumming in harmony with the golden blessing and the familiar blue shine of the armory. Something ancient. Something unknown.

It’s not quite a covenant, but it’s close enough to be terrifying.

Oracles may be able to hold the blessings of the astrals for a short period of time, but regular mortals aren’t made of the same stuff. Ignis peers inside Gladio and fears that he might crack. “Gladio,” he murmurs, despairing. “Gladio, what have you done to yourself?”

“Gilgamesh.” It’s a single word, an a simple enough one, but just the sound of it sends a chill down Ignis’s spine. “He and the souls of the former Shields tested me. I passed his trial.” He tilts his head to the side in a gesture distinctly unlike his usual mannerisms. “He gave me his power.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Ignis says softly.

He remembers what Cor had said. The thing in Taelpar Crag is not a Messenger or a god, but it’s close enough not to matter. Immortal. Inexorable.

And for a moment, Ignis fears Gladio, and the strength of his will.

“It’s what I needed,” Gladio says. “For Noct.”

“You’re endangering yourself,” Ignis warns.

Gladio narrows his eyes. “Pot, meet kettle.”

He’s not wrong. Ignis removes his hand and folds his arms, and Gladio’s eyes gleam with something like triumph. Gladio’s not bragging, of course, but he knows that the two of them have reached equal ground. An agreement of sorts.

_This is for Noct._

They both know the costs, or at least they tell themselves and the others that they do.

“What’s next?” Ignis mutters, scowling down at the ground. “Will Prompto begin forging bonds with the Messengers?”

“Don’t go giving him ideas,” Gladio teases, and he punches Ignis on the shoulder, and just like that they’re back to normal, and they’ve begun their ignorance of each other’s passengers. He slings his arm around Ignis’s shoulders, letting Ignis duck to fit beneath him, and starts walking towards the cabin. “I think three magicked-up people is enough for this party.”

Ignis snorts. “Indeed.”

He lets Gladio lead him home, forcing himself to ignore the subtle power in his friend’s bones.

_This is for Noct,_ Ignis reminds himself. _This is for Noct._

 

* * *

 

By the time night falls, Cindy and Cid have installed the mythril in King Regis’s hidden boat and have it ready to set sail. They all agree that it would be for the best if they leave as soon as possible.

Despite the hint of a chill blowing in through the cracks around the windows, Ignis strips down before taking off his glasses and setting them on his bedside table. He shares this room with Noct anyway, and he doesn’t think either of them will mind if Ignis only sleeps in his underwear.

He climbs into his bed by the window, staring out at the distant moon, and tries to focus on the crashing of the sea.

It doesn’t work.

“What are you doing over there?”

Ignis frowns and looks over his shoulder. Noct’s just within the doorway, leaning against the closed door while he wrangles his boots off his feet. “Sorry?” he asks.

Noct finishes kicking off his shoes and goes for his jacket next, tossing it on the nearest chair. Then he gets his shirt next, pulling it over his head to bare his chest. And then he pulls down the zipper of his pants, pushing them down over his hips and stepping out of them. The whole time, he stalks towards Ignis, bypassing his own bed and heading straight for the one that Ignis is absolutely currently occupying. By the time he reaches Ignis, he’s clad only in a pair of black briefs, baring every inch of lean muscle he has.

Ignis blinks at him. “Hello there.”

“Thought you were gonna sleep alone?” Noct challenges, placing his hands on his hips.

“I wasn’t presuming anything, Noct.”

“Presume,” Noct mutters. “You always use such fancy words. Nobody says that but the Council and-”

“Princes?”

Noct lifts up the sheets behind Ignis, settling in behind him and pressing his face against the warmth of Ignis’s back. “Some princes, maybe.” One of his arms snakes around to wrap possessively around Ignis’s torso; his fingers spread along Ignis’s ribs. Ignis laces their fingers together, holding them close, and he can feel the way Noct smiles against his back. “The ones who care too much about politics.”

“That doesn’t make me too confident in your future rule,” Ignis teases.

“We can worry about that after I save the world,” Noct replies, holding Ignis a little tighter. His voice is

“Yes,” Ignis echoes, though his blood runs cold at the thought of _after._ He’s never quite given it thought. There is no after, is there? “Turn off the light, would you, Noct?”

“On it.” Noct levers himself up on one arm, briefly detangling his fingers from Ignis’s, and something in Ignis’s periphery bursts into light. Noct jerks with the force of what must be a throw, and then something hits the far wall with a resounding thud. At the same time, the lights go out. “Got it,” Noct says smugly, and he drops back down against Ignis’s back.

Ignis frowns at the window, though he does shift backwards to more thoroughly get in contact with Noct. “What did you throw?” he asks.

“One of your knives.”

“Seems irresponsible.”

“I’m king. I get to decide.”

Ignis hums a quiet surrender and settles against Noct’s chest, letting himself be held. Noct’s quite good at caging him in like this, despite his smaller stature, and Ignis practically melts into the warmth of him. It’s absurd how easily they’ve fallen into this routine, like they’ve been meaning to do it for ages. In a way, it’s almost as if their bodies developed the muscle memory long before they ever decided to get close enough to touch.

After a time, Ignis thinks that Noct might have fallen asleep. They’re all exhausted after the ordeal at Steyliff Grove; by all rights, they should both be unconscious. But in the darkness, he hears a soft hitch of breath, and then-

“Hey, Ignis?”

“Yes, Noct?”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Ignis has gotten very good at lying, but he doesn’t have it in his heart to deny Noct the truth right now. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “Being the Oracle...it hurts. Just as the kingship weighs on you, Noct.”

“Ignis.” Noct’s voice comes out broken against his back. “I’m scared for you.”

Ignis squeezes his eyes shut. “I know,” he whispers. “And I fear for you.”

They don’t say much more after that.

At least he doesn’t have any nightmares.

 

\---

 

In the morning, Ignis wakes peacefully, facing Noct this time. They must have turned to meet each other in the night. Ignis admires the gentle delicate curves of his face, noble even in sleep.

_How did I get so lucky?_

He leans in and kisses him, just because he can, and Noct’s eyes open slowly to meet his. They’re a soft starlight blue this early in the morning, dark against the paleness of his skin. His long lashes sweep down as he blinks a few times, and then he closes them once more to hold Ignis close and kiss him again.

Ignis allows it for a few minutes; the boat can wait.

“Good morning,” Noct murmurs when they part, slinging a leg over Ignis’s hips to pull him closer.

Ignis smiles. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you wake up for some time.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Mm.” Ignis hums for a moment, pretending to consider it, then says, “I suppose not.”

Noct opens his eyes once more, and the sight of them nearly takes Ignis’s breath away. He’s already a bit breathless from trading kisses with Noct, so it’s not out of the question. “Best sleep ever,” he says, and he rolls them over so he’s atop Ignis, sharing his space and breath and warmth.

Yes, the boat can wait a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

The boat leaves the harbor with Cid at the helm.

Cor had seen them off with an apology and a long, private conversation with Gladio. Ignis sees the ghost of mournfulness in his eyes and knows that Cor fears the power of Taelpar Crag too.

“Come back soon!” Talcott cries as they go, leaning over the edge of the pier to wave even harder. “We need our king!”

He means Noct, of course, but Ignis likes the ambiguity of the statement.

They’re both kings after all, adrift from their nations, far from home.

He holds Noct’s hand tight and prays that they will return to Lucis together.

 

* * *

 

In the night, late in their multi-day journey, the clouds clear enough that they can go out on the deck and enjoy the cool air.

They’re not alone.

Ignis senses it first, as he so often does. Something warm and golden rises from the depths to meet them, breaching the surface of the water beside their ship with a soft, mournful rumble.

“King of the sea,” Noct breathes, crouching at the edge of the boat.

“No,” Ignis murmurs in response, because he knows the answer in his bones, clear as soon as he sees the body of the beast before them. “A Messenger. Bismarck.”

_There’s another._

Driven by divine impulse, he reaches over the edge of the boat to pet Bismarck.

For a moment, he’s terrified that the Messenger will reject him, but Bismarck rumbles and accepts his touch. He’s wet with seawater, but beneath the slick of it his skin is smooth and thick. Beneath it, thick muscles ripple with the power of a creature which has traveled the depths of the seas for endless lifetimes. And all over his blue-gray back, pale in the moonlight, are the runes of the astrals’ magic.

Mesmerized, Ignis traces the lines of the runes. The script is the same as the carvings on the havens; it fills him with the same dreadful anticipation and wonder as the voices of the gods. It’s the same language, after all. He just hadn’t known that some of the Messengers chose to incorporate the edict of the Six into their very forms.

Ignis closes his eyes to focus on the music.

It’s not the same as the hymns of his childhood. Those were the product of the gods’ beloved Oracles, the most devout of the humans after the calamity of the Astral War. Those were divinity filtered into the language of mortals. The music of Bismarck’s life force hums with a power beyond words or human comprehension, transcending even the impossible language of the gods.

This is worship, Ignis realizes. This is devotion to the gods at its purest.

He could listen to it forever.

Lowly, on instinct, he breathes out an echo of the song.

“Oh, _Iggy,”_ Prompto breathes, leaning over the edge of the boat. When Ignis cracks open his eyes to look at him, he’s lit up in an ethereal blue light, banishing all of the violet from his eyes. There’s a wondrous look on his face, half awe and half disbelief. Ignis doesn’t think he’s ever seen Prompto look quite so content.

Ignis looks down to find the source of the light, and-

_Oh._

The runes on Bismarck’s back are glowing.

He can hardly read them, but the sight of them fills his heart with a unique sense of wonder. They’re alive with the soft blue glow that Ignis had thought only belonged to havens and holy ground. Only a few of them are fully illuminated, though, along the back of the great Messenger.

Wherever his hand touches, the runes light up in blue, tracing his path on age-old skin.

“How are you doing that?” Gladio asks, voice gone soft with awe.

“I’m not quite sure,” Ignis admits, heart thrumming with something excited and alive. Another pass of his hand, and the runes glow anew. It’s incredible. “You see?” he says, and he looks back at them all. “The gods are waking, and the Messengers as well. Magic is alive.” He laughs, breathless and exhilarated. “There’s hope.”

_There’s hope._

Right now, banishing the surrounding darkness with the light he shares with the divine, it certainly feels like it.

So, so much waits beyond the reaches of his sight. But for now, here, with his dearest friends at his side and an ancient wonder beneath his fingers, Ignis is content to forget about the looming darkness.

For now.

After, once they’ve descended into their cabins, Noct presses him against the wall, pulling Ignis down to meet his lips.

“What’s all this about?” Ignis asks when they part.

“That was probably the hottest thing you could have done.”

Ignis grins. “Hot? Me?”

Noct blushes furiously, resolutely avoiding eye contact in favor of fiddling with the zipper of Ignis’s pants. “Don’t kill the moment.”

“Was there a moment?”

“Did you see yourself, Ignis?” Noct roughly rips open Ignis’s pants once he manages to undo the zipper, hooking his thumbs in Ignis’s underwear. In a single fluid motion, he drops to his knees, blinking reverently up at Ignis. “The power, Specs. All yours.”

“Noct,” Ignis murmurs, and his fingers find Noct’s hair immediately, taking a lock and tugging until Noct’s eyelids flutter.

That’s all the encouragement Noctis seems to need, because he moves forward, raising his hand to palm the shape of Ignis through his underwear. Already, Ignis can feel himself growing harder beneath his touch, eager as he is whenever Noct is close now.

“Noctis,” he sighs. “Noct.”

He looks down as Noct begins to mouth along the length of him, and he nearly moans aloud.

It’s a wondrous sight, really: Noct on his knees.

If they were not themselves, and they were just some other Lucian monarch and his Oracle, maybe this would be the norm. Maybe Noctis would come to him for a blessing, subservient and pious. He would wait on his knees for the touch of the Oracle - for even a fraction of the power of the gods’ mortal messenger - with eyes wide open, staring up at Ignis in awe.

But Noctis is the Chosen of the gods, powerful beyond anyone’s imagination, and he should not kneel for Ignis.

But he does.

Ignis doesn’t stop him.

Instead, he tangles his fingers in the mess of Noct’s hair, pulls him closer, and orders, “Don’t you dare stop now.”

Noctis doesn’t disappoint.

He’s unpracticed, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm and raw appeal. He just looks good like this, blinking up at Ignis with the shine of tears at the corners of his eyes, reverent and blissed-out and smug. When he comes up for air, still licking a stripe down the length of Ignis’s cock while he pants hot air across his skin, he breathes, “Should’ve done this ages ago.”

Ignis leans his head back against the wall. “I agree - ah, _Noctis-”_ He can’t find the words to express how good Noct is, and how beautiful, and how wonderful.

He rolls his hips forward before he can control himself, and Noct makes a small, startled noise that turns into another moan, reaching up to hold Ignis by the hip. Ignis knows he won’t last long; this is all so new to him.

Breathlessly, he asks, “Are you touching yourself, Noct?”

Noct doesn’t even take his mouth away when he moans in reply. The vibrations have Ignis bracing himself on the wall behind him, looking down to watch the way Noct’s palming himself through his fatigues.

Noct must feel his gaze, because he looks up, eyes wide and dark, and Ignis gasps, “Noct, I - I’m going to-”

In response, Noct removes his mouth for just a moment and tells him, “Let go, Ignis.” His voice is wrecked and rough and perfect, and his lips curve into a smile as he licks around the head of Ignis’s cock.

Ignis gasps out something that might be Noct’s name, chanting it softly over and over as he crashes over the edge. Noct works him through it with his hands and mouth until Ignis is shaking above him; he makes a pleased sound when Ignis’s fingers curl and tug in his hair.

When he’s got his wits about him again, Ignis drops to his knees before Noct, grabbing his chin and kissing him. He can taste himself in Noct’s mouth, and he finds that he doesn’t mind that at all. That’s one more part of him that belongs to Noct now.

It’s time he takes some part of Noct for himself.

“Come on, Noct,” he urges, and he runs his thumb along the flushed tip of Noct’s cock. With the other hand, he pushes Noct’s shirt up, feeling the frantic warmth of Noct’s skin. “Noct, you were so good to me. Let me take care of you.”

“Ignis,” Noct nearly sobs, leaning his head forward onto Ignis’s shoulder. “Ignis, please.”

“Noctis,” Ignis murmurs into Noct’s hair. He twists his wrist on the next upstroke, trying to emulate what he’s always liked on his own. He wants to make Noct feel good.

Another moment, and then Noct’s hips stutter forward into Ignis’s hand, and he spills over Ignis’s fingers with a low, breathy moan. Ignis whispers encouragement to Noct as he works through the aftershocks. As an afterthought, he leaves kisses along Noct’s hairline, working his way down to his lips, where Noct sighs into his mouth. Ignis takes his hand off of Noct, and he indulges in a long, unhurried kiss.

“Worth it,” Noct mutters after what feels like hours and no time at all, sitting back on his heels. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, sputtering a bit when he realizes he’s still wearing his gauntlet.

“Yes, I certainly think so.” Ignis leans in and kisses him, then pecks him on the nose. “You were excited.” He stands, tucking himself back into his pants, and says, “I’m quite ready for bed, Noct.”

“Mm, me too.” Noct doesn’t walk so much as leap into their bed, shucking off his pants and coat until he’s left only in his shirt and underwear. “Wash off and we can sleep.”

Ignis obliges as quickly as he can, stripping down afterwards and climbing into bed with Noct. Noct’s already half-asleep, but he tucks his face into Ignis’s shoulder when Ignis wraps his arms around him. It’s nice, really.

Maybe that’s another form of prayer too.

He holds Noct close and cherishes the feeling of his heartbeat so close.

He wakes to someone poking him in the side.

Ignis cracks an eye open, finding Noct in the darkness. “It’s the middle of the night, Noct,” he groans. “Go back to sleep.” This is entirely unlike him.

“Here, Ignis,” Noct says, still poking Ignis in the stomach. “Come outside.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be good. I promise.”

Well, Ignis has never been one to doubt the promise of a king. He allowed Noct to drag him from the bed, but he insists on taking one of the blankets with him, wrapping it around his shoulders.

Noct looks at him in the darkness, and there’s the hint of a smile from him, “Black?” he asks.

Ignis looks down at the soft weave of the blanket, recognizing the black and its silver embroidery. A Lucian heirloom, then. It figures; they are on His Majesty’s ship, after all. “I suppose so,” he murmurs.

“Looks good on you.” Noct takes his hand and leads Ignis out onto the deck of the ship, bringing him around to the bow. “Here. Sit.”

Ignis sits. “What’s this about, Noct?”

“Just like we promised,” Noct says, voice still a little rough and raw. “All the stars.” And he points up at the sky.

Ignis follows his gaze, and he gasps.

He can see _everything._

There are all of the familiar constellations: the Fulgurian’s Judgment, the Twin Canines, and the Meteor’s Trail. Ignis remembers them fondly from the textbooks back in Insomnia and his and Noct’s journeys to their favorite observatory. But there is so, so much more out there. Constellations that he’s only ever read about gleam out in what he’d once thought were blank fields of endless night.

“Look at them all,” he breathes.

Just like they promised.

Under the stars, with Noct at his side, Ignis feels impossibly small, and incredibly insignificant.

Somewhere in the depths, Bismarck carves through the darkness. Somewhere in the depths, Leviathan sleeps.

“Stop thinking about the future,” Noct murmurs, because of course he knows where Ignis’s head is at. “Be here.”

“I’m here,” Ignis promises, and he lets Noct lace their fingers together. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

They sit together on the bow of the ship, wrapped up together with the same blanket around their shoulders. It’s cold and windy and wet, promising the coming autumn, but the night is finally bringing him naught but Noctis and starlight.

And that’s all he needs, really.

 

* * *

 

Weskham Armaugh is nice enough, if a little suspicious.

“That’s the secretary,” he tells them, pointing to the woman waiting across the restaurant. “She is a close friend, and a worthy ally. You need only say the word, and I can make arrangements to have you delivered to the Altar of the Tidemother safely.”

“How?” Noct asks, narrowing his eyes.

Weskham smiles. “Give me some space, and I’ll show you.”

Gladio makes a soft, frustrated noise but guides them away anyway, muttering about negotiations and how much he hasn’t missed the bureaucracy he was raised to be a part of. Advisor and Shield or not, Gladio still has his preferences.

Weskham beckons the secretary closer and murmurs something in her ear. As he does, the secretary’s eyes widen and focus on Ignis. There’s no malice there, but the others must notice the shift in her gaze, because they shuffle subtly around to pen Ignis in between them. Surrounded by them, staring at this leader of the last semi-free nation in Eos, Ignis feels safe.

The two of them part, and Secretary Claustra straightens her jacket before looking over their little group.

“Your Highness,” she says, and in this light it’s hard to tell who she’s looking at. “Tomorrow. My office. We talk.”

And she stalks away with her guards without another word.

“Oh,” Prompto says bemusedly.

Ignis heads over to Weskham and pulls him close.  “You told her I’m the Oracle, didn’t you?”

Weskham nods. “Would you prefer if I hadn’t?”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “It seems as if it wouldn’t matter what my opinion is.”

That brings a soft chuckle out of Weskham, who leans over the edge of the bar to look into Ignis’s eyes. His eyes, while sharp and shrewd, are also incredibly kind. Ignis can’t help but trust him. “We’re in the thick of it now, Your Highness. Now isn’t the time to get cautious about finding allies. Here in Altissia, our loyalties have been decided for a long time.”

“And yours?” Ignis challenges.

“To my old friend the king, and to his son, and to the gods.” Weskham’s soft smile fades into something sterner. “We all stand behind our kings.”

 

* * *

 

The morning finds them in Camelia Claustra’s estate in the heart of Altissia.

“Now what?” Noct asks her, folding his arms.

“We negotiate.” She makes a slight motion with one hand, and two guards approach and flank Ignis.

Noct steps forward. “Hey.”

“What are you doing with him?” Gladio asks lowly. Beside Ignis, Prompto’s stance shifts, and there’s a gentle hum of static in the air.

Claustra shakes her head. “This negotiation does not concern the Oracle. I’m sending him upstairs-”

“Upstairs?” Noct demands, halfway to snarling. “He’s the king of Tenebrae-”

“Would have been king,” Claustra corrects sharply, “if not for the fact that he is currently dead. And the Oracle wishes to see him.”

“The Oracle wishes to-” Noct frowns. “What?”

Ignis knows enough of Claustra’s veiled meanings to consider it for a moment. “Lunafreya?” he breathes. “You have her?”

Something like approval glints in her predator eyes. “Astute, Your Highness. She waits upstairs.”

“I take my guard,” Ignis says, grabbing Prompto by the wrist. He tries to focus on the words instead of the rush of _Lunafreya-_

“Approved. The king stays with me.” Claustra makes another gesture, and she starts to stalk away. Noct and Gladio get herded into following her, and Ignis’s guards prod him towards a set of stairs.

“Be safe,” Noct hisses over his shoulder, and Gladio inches closer to his side.

Ignis nods, tugs quietly at one of Prompto’s bracelets, and lets the guards usher him up the stairs.

The two soldiers leave them in front of two ornate doors, wordlessly gesturing towards them.

Ignis takes hold of the handles, lets out a breath, and pushes the doors open.

Lunafreya wears white.

She is dressed in the garb befitting the Oracle: soft flowing fabrics like the veil between the worlds, reminding Ignis of how he used to hide in his mother’s skirts as a child. In a short dress with the Tenebraen crest pinned at her chest, she wears the mantle of Oracle better than Ignis ever could.

And she’s smiling.

And Ignis is running to her, and he gathers her up in his arms, and everything is finally, finally right.

She clings to him with the strength of a Fleuret, and they both breathe raggedly around barely contained tears.

“My little brother,” she murmurs into his chest. “Ignis, at last.”

“Luna,” Ignis breathes, because that is enough of a prayer for this moment. It’s Luna, it’s her, she’s safe-

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“And I you.”

“When last we saw each other-“

“I know.” Even now, the memory is painful and tinged with regret. Even now, the recollection of his siblings’ faces is tainted with the acrid smell of smoke and blood.

But none of that matters. Luna is here.

When they part, holding onto each other’s arms, Luna’s attention catches Prompto standing nervously off to the side. “We have a guest,” she says warmly.

“Lady Lunafreya!” Prompto exclaims. He falters for a moment, seemingly hyper-aware of how loud he just was, and ducks his head. More bashfully, he says, “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m-”

“Prompto!” Luna interrupts with a little laugh. “How could I not? I’ve seen so many of your pictures.”

His eyes light up. “You have?”

“Umbra brings them along with Noctis’s notebook. I cherish them all.” She steps towards him, briefly leaving Ignis’s side, and takes Prompto by the hands. It looks like he might die of happiness on the spot.

“That’s - that’s great. Wow. Uh.” Prompto laughs a little bit.

“Are you feeling well, Prompto?” she asks, keeping his hands clasped between hers. She steals a glance over at Ignis, eyes asking a silent question. There’s a muted distress in there that Ignis recognizes, even after all these years. It’s a familiar expression: he’s felt it crease his own face time and time again.

So she feels it too.

Prompto says, “Yeah, of course. Great now that I’ve met you. Why?”

Luna’s eyes flick back to Prompto, and the smile returns, soft and unfazed. Ignis is quietly impressed; it seems he’s not the only one in the family who’s been able to push past the golden truthful tendencies of their line. “You looked pale,” she says simply. “Are you sure Ignis lets you outside?”

“Gladio, mostly.” Prompto leans in and says conspiratorially, “I think his life goal is to make the Citadel a campground. That’s his happy place.” Still with his hands between Luna’s, he makes an excited, half-aborted gesture. “I’ve got more pictures of Lucis, if you want to see. I know you were out there for a bit before your brother picked you up.”

“Later,” she promises, and squeezes Prompto’s hands before releasing him.

Ignis says, “Lunafreya.”

She smiles. “Ignis.”

“I dreamed of you in Fociaugh Hollow.” Even now, he can see it, in the flashes of bluish lightning he so loathes. “You talked to me.”

_“I know not what will come to pass,” Luna had said, as she held the Ring in her hands. And then she was burning, and Noct was burning, and-_

Aloud, he asks, “Was it truly your work, Luna?”

She sits down in one of the ornate armchairs, crossing her legs and staring pensively up at him. Finally, she says, “The hollow is holy. The last time an Oracle was there, it was our mother. The connection helped me find you.”

Not for the first time, Ignis stands in awe of his older sister. Lunafreya possesses abilities far beyond his own, making up for that which she lacks when playing the role of the Oracle. It must come from years of wrestling with and learning from the Messengers, following Pryna through dark dreams and darker days. “You gave me clarity in a time of peril,” he tells her, and he places his hand atop hers, dropping into the chair beside her. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“Seeing you is reward enough for me,” she says, and there’s the smile once more, banishing the sad lines from the corners of her eyes.

“That reminds me, actually,” Ignis says. “Aranea sends her regards.”

Luna’s eyes gleam with interest. “Does she?” she muses softly, and a more secret smile plays along her lips. “I’ll be sure to thank her when I see her again.”

“I’m sure, sister.” Ignis frowns, remembering something all at once. “Lunafreya, the Ring of the Lucii - where is it?”

“Safe with me,” she says firmly. “It would be foolhardy to grant it to him before this trial. Leviathan will seek to test him as he is, not as an ascended king.”

“Mortal might,” Ignis mutters.

“Indeed.” Luna smiles. “The Ring will come to Noctis. I promise.”

There’s a soft knock on the door.

Luna looks up with a puzzled expression. “Come in,” she calls.

The door opens, and Ravus enters, a storm in white and black and violet.

“Ravus!” Ignis exclaims, standing swiftly.

Relief turns Ravus’s expression soft and open and warm. “Ignis,” he breathes. “You’re safe.” He crosses the room in five great steps and sweeps Luna and Ignis up in his arms without another word.

And for a moment, it’s just the three of them. The Fleurets, together at last.

Ignis breathes in the scent of them - sylleblossoms and steel - and knows that everything has been worth it. Every ache and every year and every blessing has brought them here, together at last.

Maybe he hears his siblings’ breaths hitch too, and that’s okay.

Gods, but he loves them.

They part reluctantly but inevitably.

Ravus looks from Ignis to Luna. He puts his hand on her shoulder - the flesh one, and not the magitek monstrosity given to him by the empire. “Sister. It is good to see you well.”

“All is fine in this cage of mine,” Luna replies with a tone that implies this is a common argument.

Ravus grimaces. “A necessary evil.” His eyes tick across the room. “Speaking of which…”

He’s unsubtle. He means Prompto. Ignis frowns. “He can stay.”

Ravus throws a glare over his shoulder at Prompto, who returns it with equal force. “Pet,” he sneers.

“Don’t call him that,” Ignis snaps. To his credit, Prompto doesn’t even flinch at the word; whatever reaction he may have is hidden behind the smooth facade of a Crownsguard warrior. He’s good; it’s part of why Ignis keeps him around, though certainly the person behind the mask is the better reason.

“Very well.” Ravus turns back to Ignis and Luna. “So the secretary is keeping you here and away from the negotiations. She seeks to gain your prince’s protection during the rite. In exchange, she will protect you two.” He pauses, then makes a quiet noise of derision. “Though of course she cannot keep the gods at bay.”

Ignis stares at him. “So you mean to continue this. You mean to kill Leviathan.”

Ravus’s uneven gaze ticks away from him. “Yes,” he says quietly, and there’s a soft revulsion living in the back of his tone. What he loathes, though, Ignis cannot tell.

So he asks, “For your empire’s sake, or for mine?”

“It’s not my empire,” Ravus mutters. “It never was. But all the same, I follow their orders. But for you, Ignis. Always for you.”

Ignis shakes his head. “You’re wasting your time on the Hydraean. The covenant must be forged.”

“I think not. You would throw your life away?” he asks. “For this...prince? Your king?”

“He is the Chosen,” Ignis says softly. “I must protect him. I am called by the gods to do this for him.”

“You would be a king, Ignis, if only you would leave him behind. You would be an Oracle for the masses rather than just for one man!”

“And it is that one man who will save the masses!” Ignis snaps. “Would you have me put a balm on a wound and let it fester, or would you have me purge it of infection? I am not strong enough to save the world on my own!”

Ravus retorts, “Exactly! You fully admit that you are not strong enough for this! You know the costs.”

Ignis stands, glaring up into Ravus’s mismatched eyes. “I am fine.”

Ravus snarls, “Look at you, Ignis! You’re hardly yourself anymore. And this is before forming covenants with the Draconian and Hydraean.”

“I am the Oracle,” Ignis tells him firmly. “That is all I need to be.”

“And what of the aftermath?” Luna asks, speaking up at last. “What will you do when it is done? When the prophecy is fulfilled?”

Ignis stops; he flounders. “I-”

She stands, looking him in the eye. She’s shorter than him, but he’s never felt quite so small. “Do you even expect to survive?” she asks him quietly, and there’s steel in her gaze.

Maybe he could handle Ravus on his own, or Luna. The force of both of them staring down at him is more than enough to make him falter. “I-” he tries again, and he can’t find the right words. There’s only one word that’s not a lie, and it’s the one they don’t want to hear. All he has to say is _yes,_ and maybe they’ll leave him alone. Lies are easy when they’re just one word, right? _Yes, I expect to survive this journey._

It’s not so hard to say.

Right?

He’s good at lying to his friends, but he cannot lie to his siblings. Not now.

“No,” he says, and it’s hardly above a whisper. “No, I don’t.”

Across the room, Prompto makes a quiet, wounded noise.

Luna’s steel-blue eyes go soft. “Little brother,” she murmurs, “what have you done to yourself?”

“What I had to,” Ignis replies simply, and he hears Ravus make a sound of disgust.

Slowly, Luna makes her move. Ignis fears that she might strike him, but instead she holds him by the shoulders, staring deep into his eyes. Ignis wouldn’t dream of looking away. Not now. Not after he’s told her the truth of this prophecy and the path of the Oracle she claims to be. “You come to me,” she orders softly. “I will tell Camelia to let you in. You will perform the rite under my protection and authority as Oracle.”

Ravus steps forward. “Lunafreya, you can’t possibly think that you’re letting him do this.”

“This is not up to you either, Ravus,” Luna snaps, glaring up at him. “It is not up to any of us. If the gods say it must be so, then we cannot disobey them. Our service is about sacrifice. Mother died protecting you, Ravus.”

“That does not mean our brother must die protecting the Lucian brat!”

“Your brother is right here,” Ignis interjects loudly. “And he is leaving. Secretary Claustra will be expecting me.” Or he hopes. He needs to get out of this room, away from all this talk of death and duty and all of the things he’s tried not to think too hard about. “Prompto, we’re leaving.”

“Iggy-”

“It’s fine, Prompto,” Ignis says before Prompto can finish. “There’s work to be done.” He takes him by the wrist again, the one on the left, because after staring into Ravus’s eyes he’s not sure he can get close to the barcode, whatever it means. “Come along. We must prepare for the trial.”

A new voice calls him back this time. “Ignis.”

“I will see you at the rite, Ravus,” Ignis says firmly, not daring to turn around and face him. “And you tomorrow, sister.”

“Ignis.” More insistent this time. Nearly a warning.

“Ravus.”

“Please don’t do this.” There’s the threat in his words.

Ignis whirls to face him for a moment, glaring across the room. “I will do what I must, as the gods have commanded. Follow the empire’s orders if you must. Remember, though, that I am your king.”

He turns once more, quickly enough that he misses the expression that blooms in his brother’s eyes.

Or convinces himself that he does.

It would be hard not to notice Ravus’s despair.

No matter. Ignis cannot be distracted. The prophecy waits. Noctis must be blessed and crowned. There is work to be done.

Tomorrow he wakes the Hydraean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Altissia. :)


	18. leviathan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hydraean rages.

In the estate of the secretary once more, Ignis says his farewells.

“We’ll wait outside,” Prompto says softly, looking between the two of them. “Gladio?”

“Right behind you.” Gladio pats Ignis’s shoulder one more time, eyes clear and devoid of any trace of scarlet, and says, “Be safe. Yeah?”

Ignis nods. “Yes. Of course.” And then, because he knows Gladio and his attachment to anything he calls his family, he says, “I’ll try.” It’s not right to fill Gladio’s heart with promises that he might not be able to keep; this is the most he can offer him. It’s gentler, he thinks, than the steely sureness and promises that Gladio got from Clarus before leaving Insomnia. 

Nothing is certain enough for promises anymore. Nothing is safe.

Gladio’s eyes soften for a moment. “Try,” he orders gently, and he turns away. He puts his hand on Prompto’s shoulder, guiding him away, and leaves the room.

Ignis lets out a soft, shuddering sigh.

To the room in general, he announces, “It’ll be fine.” 

It’s not as effective as intended, because Noct is the only person in the room with him. He approaches, leaving his spot at the window, backlit by the sun. “Specs,” he says. “Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

“Listen, Noct, I don’t know how this is going to go.” He bites his lip. “This is the first covenant I’ve forged in public. I’ve always been alone.” Nobody’s seen how he looks when he gives up part of himself in exchange for power. Nobody’s seen the reality of his calling.

“You won’t be alone,” Noct promises. “Luna will be right there, and I’ll meet up with you.”

Ignis reminds him, “The citizens are the priority. Keep them safe. They may not be Lucians, but-”

“I’ll do my best,” Noct interrupts. He takes Ignis’s hands. “If you do yours.”

“I will.”

Noct’s mouth almost tilts up into a smile, but worry still creases his face. “Ignis?” he asks.

In return, Ignis asks, “Noct?”

“Take off the gloves.”

“I can’t,” he says softly.

“Why not?”

“They help.” Ignis carefully removes one of his hands from Noct’s and flexes the fingers slowly. “Otherwise, much of my energy is devoted to avoiding touching anything touched by the Scourge. If I can’t avoid it, I pour much of my power into it in an effort to heal, but…” He trails off. “It’s not important.”

Noct shakes his head. “Of course it is.”

“But,” Ignis says on a wild urge before he can stop himself, “just this once, Noct. For you.”

Maybe because something about today feels like a last time.

He carefully removes the gloves one at a time, handing them to Noct for safekeeping. Noct cradles them like they’re precious, tucking them away in one of his chest pockets. It’s not the armiger, where they’d be safe, but somehow Ignis likes it better that they’re kept on the physical plane. When he’s done, he flexes his fingers, hesitating. The gloves are usually only gone when he’s sleeping. Ever since Insomnia, that’d been true.

But holding Noct’s hand goes back further than his spotty memory, ingrained in his muscles and bones, and that’s what Ignis relies on. He takes one of Noct’s hands, and then the other, holding them up in the space between their chests.

Noct’s hands are warmer than Ignis remembers. Perhaps it’s his natural power, or maybe it’s just that Ignis has a covenant of ice in his bones. No darkness clings to him the way that it stains the world around him. Noct’s soul repels darkness nearly as well as Ignis’s can, but it seems to take no toll on him. Maybe Noct’s light is so bright that he does not even notice when its might is exerted over the surrounding terrors.

“No Starscourge here. And soon enough, there won’t be any of it anywhere.” He carefully turns Ignis’s hands over, baring the palms to the sky. “Because we’re going to take care of it. We’ll purge the darkness, like all the prophecies say. You and me. My fate is yours, and yours is mine, yeah?”

Ignis breathes out a sigh. “Right,” he agrees, and he remembers just how true it is.

Noct hesitates - a remnant of his youth in Insomnia, and of his efforts to be aloof - before he raises their joined hands to his lips. He kisses Ignis’s hands softly, then smiles a bit. “Sorry.”

Ignis feels his cheeks getting warmer, and he tries to pull his hands away. “Noct, please.”

“I mean it. You know what you can do.”

“That’s awfully bold coming from a prince who can’t take a compliment.”

Noct grins fully, all youthful charm and embarrassment. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I can’t stick around complimenting you forever.” Already, his cheeks are flushed. “Listen, Specs, just - you know what I’m trying to say here.”

Ignis nods, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment as he sighs. 

He doesn’t get a chance to answer; the doors get thrown open, and two Altissian guards stride in, hands at the hilts of their blades. “It’s time,” they say.

“Hey,” Noct says roughly, and he grabs Ignis by the hand. His fingers are warm against Ignis’s, bare and thrumming with power. “Be careful out there. I’ll see you soon.” He tugs, reeling Ignis in close, and he pulls him down for a final kiss.

Ignis holds onto Noct’s hand, squeezing it tightly as he lets Noct lean up and claim him a final time. This is all he needs, he thinks. This could be perfect.

“It’ll be fine,” Noctis whispers against his lips. “Promise.”

Ignis nods, still desperate to stay here in this moment with Noct. “Promise,” he echoes. 

It sounds hollow in both of their voices.

Noct sinks down from the tips of his toes, rocking backwards in his traditional combat boots. He looks the same as always; he looks like a king. All at once, Ignis is reminded of the distant, nebulous threat of the future, and of the king that Noctis must become if they have any hope of pulling the world from darkness.

He’d give anything to stay at his side.

Instead, he lets Noctis leave.

Ignis gets escorted up to Luna’s suite by Secretary Claustra.

He doesn’t bother with the miserable intricacies of diplomacy; he’s hardly the king he was told he is. She certainly doesn’t think so, since she had sent him off instead of keeping him in the room with Noct for the negotiations.

“Your Highness,” she says, allowing him to ascend the stairs first, “I will admit that it pleases me to see you alive.”

Ignis glances sidelong at her. He’s vaguely impressed that she actually let him go before her as a king. “I will admit it displeases me to be shuttled around like cargo, secrecy or not.”

Claustra raises an eyebrow and says, “Such is the nature of our agreement. You would become a target if your identity were to be revealed.”

“I’ve been a target all my life, Secretary. So is Noct. Seeing my face won’t change that.” Ignis forges ahead, throws open the doors to Lunafreya’s suite, and resolutely ignores the secretary’s response, if she even bothers to make one.

From across the room, Lunafreya says, “You’re late.”

“His Highness insisted on saying farewell to his friends for longer than necessary,” Claustra says.

Ignis sighs.

Luna seems to mirror his frustration with the secretary. She’s in a long white dress today, simple but flowing and made of what must be the finest Tenebraen fabric the kingdom could offer. She strides over and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting, as if they’re merely saying hello after spending the night apart. As if they’re familiar with each other.

Would that it could be true.

“Thank you, Secretary.” The dismissal in her voice couldn’t be more clear.

“Best of luck, Your Highness.”

“My thanks,” both Luna and Ignis say in unison.

There’s a brief silence, and then the secretary’s footsteps click back through the palace, heading back down to her office. In Ignis’s arms, Luna gives a soft, delighted laugh.

“She should treat you better,” she says, and she pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Ignis fixes the collar of his fatigues. “I can’t complain, really. She has a point, little though I may like it. And she’s kept you safe while I’ve made my way here.” Would that he had been able to come sooner. Would that they could have more time.

Fate doesn’t wait, though.

“Are you ready for this?” She puts her hands on each side of his face, turning it this way and that. “You look pale. Did you sleep?”

“Did you?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Pot and kettle, then. We make a fair pair, if only you invert the color.”

“Speaking of which, Luna, they can’t know it’s me,” he says. “I need the chancellor’s eyes off of me.” 

“I know. Put this on.” Lunafreya walks to the wardrobe and throws it open, thumbing past gowns and outfits of gray and gold and silver. She holds out a bundle of clothing and hangers to him. It’s done up all in white and gold, with metal fastenings studded all along it. It’s hard not to recognize the details of it. Luna says, “I brought it from home.”

Ignis reaches out and takes the bundle from her, thumbing through the layers of thick fabric. It’s sturdy, far cry from the soft raiment befitting an Oracle, but he likes it that way. Luna sets out a pair of tall boots for him as well, and he eyes them hungrily. “Luna, this uniform-”

“Tenebraean.  _ Real  _ Tenebraean. It’s not the raiment of the Oracle, but it’s home.” She smiles, and there’s the steel again. “Better yet, it’s a disguise. You’re coming to the altar, Ignis, or everything we’ve done to get here will have been for nothing.”

_ Everything we’ve done.  _ Luna has risked her life and reputation to keep him a secret. Ravus has endured the abuses of the empire to keep him a secret. Jared died to keep him a secret. And Ignis-

Ignis has killed.

He has killed, and he has healed, and he has given himself up in order to wake the gods, destroying garrisons and forgetting everything but his oath and his duty and his love.

It has to be worth it. He can’t give this up now.

The uniform doesn’t have the high collar that Ravus’s does, but that’s to be expected. Ravus is an officer. Ignis is anonymous.

When he presses his face into the fabric, he can smell something slightly foreign that he can’t quite place. It’s nothing like the familiarity of Lucis and Insomnia, but it tugs at the threads of his memory nonetheless. Some thoughts never quite disappear.

She pushes him behind a screen. “Change into it,” she orders.

Ignis does it quickly, carefully folding his traditional fatigues and storing them away in the armory. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to get back to the secretary’s manor to retrieve them, so he might as well keep them close. The new uniform is heavier than the fatigues, clinking gently while he puts it on. 

He steps out from behind the screen, inspecting the long lean lines and stripes of the coat. “Won’t the color be suspicious?” He’s used to seeing black accents on Ravus’s uniform. The gold is not regulation standard, as far as he knows.

“You’re my personal guard. Your color is befitting of an Oracle’s companion.” She straightens one of the fastenings on the jacket. “You look wonderful, brother. Here, look in the mirror.” She takes him by the shoulders and steers him over to the mirror. “Look, Ignis,” she insists.

Well.

He certainly doesn’t look like an Oracle.

Beside Luna, he fades into irrelevance. He’s not sure he could ever match her understated radiance. Where Luna’s dress flows in soft waves, his ends in sharp cuts and buckles. Where he is gold, she is silver. Where he is a soldier, she is an Oracle. 

And maybe that’s for the best.

He’s sworn himself to a foreign king and he’s fled from his country to escape the threat of subjugation, forcing Luna into his role in his stead. If anyone deserves the honor of the Oracle’s mantle, it’s her. She clearly has a natural aptitude for the talents of the divine, as all of the blood of the Oracle do. 

He clears his throat and says, “You look wonderful, Lunafreya.”

In the reflection, she smiles. “You’re sweet, brother. Here. You’ll need this as well.” Luna walks to her wardrobe and reaches up to the top shelf, shoving some spare blankets aside. She comes back with a stocky military issue firearm and holds it out. 

Ignis takes it from her, staring down at it. “This is a gun.”

Luna blinks. “Astute, Ignis.”

“Why would I need one of these?”

“Have you ever seen a soldier without one?”

“Yes. Ravus.”

“Ravus is the highest ranking officer in the military. He has soldiers that carry firearms for him. He wields the saber given to him by the emperor himself.” Luna pushes Ignis’s hands towards him. “You’re just a soldier. Your only claim to fame is that you are my guard.” She pauses, then asks, “Do you know how to hold it?”

He’s seen Prompto enough to understand the basics. “Of course I do.” He adjusts his grip on the weapon, holding it in strict military posture for marching.

Luna smiles softly. “You almost look like Father like that.”

“Do you think so?” It was hard enough to remember his face even as a child. Now, with dark voids where his memories used to be, it’s nearly impossible.

“Hm. Yes. The hair isn’t regulation, unfortunately.” She tucks a lock of it behind his ear for him. “Let’s be rid of the glasses. Do you need them to see?”

Ignis shakes his head. “I’ll be fine without them.”

“Good. Imperial soldiers don’t wear them; it’s out of regulation.” Luna reaches up and plucks the frames from his face; she folds them up and sets them aside on her bureau. “They’ll be waiting for you when you get back.” 

“I hope.”

“Nobody’s going to steal them, Ignis.”

Ignis makes a noise of vague disagreement. At least he has his spares in the armory. “Here, you should hold the Trident while we go.”

She shakes her head. “Ignis, I’ve never wielded it before.”

“Because you have never summoned a god, dear sister. Now you will.” He holds out his hand into the empty air between them, focuses on the glowing armory in his heart, and summons the Trident of the Oracle.

It’s...it’s beautiful. Ignis nearly gasps aloud at the force with which he hears its archaic music, surprised by how clearly it radiates through his bones.

He’d forgotten to take his gloves back.

He’s never felt the Trident’s raw power like this before.

It’s intoxicating.

“Ignis?” Lunafreya asks.

Ignis looks up at her; she’s limned in gold light now. The whole world is. “Yes - ah, here.” He holds it out to her before his instincts order him not to. There is nothing to heal around here, but the Trident in his grasp sings its familiar song, calling him to fulfill his ancient purpose.

She takes it with ultimate care, turning it over carefully in her hands. “Ignis,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

Ignis smiles. “Mother would have loved to see you like this.”

“I hope.” She looks down at the Trident. “I miss her.”

“I do, too.” Or what he remembers of her.

Someone knocks on the door, then enters before they can even call out to them. It’s a Niflheim soldier this time, narrowing his eyes as he looks at Ignis and Luna. “It’s time, Lady Lunafreya,” he says.

The steel is back in Luna’s eyes. “So it would seem.”

“Who’s this?”

Luna raises an eyebrow. “My retainer. He stays with me.”

The officer looks Ignis up and down.

Ignis shrugs.

With a sigh, the officer turns back to Luna and reaches for the Trident of the Oracle. “You are not permitted to hold that yet,” he says, and he rips it from Luna’s hand. “Your bodyguard can have it.”

Luna dips her head in obedience. “Of course.” The second that the soldier’s eyes leave her, she raises her gaze once more. Her eyes are full of steel and defiance.

“Here.” The officer holds the Trident out roughly to Ignis. “She can have it when you reach the altar.”

It’s curious, Ignis thinks. This man has closed his heart to its music. He doesn’t hear its call.

Ignis takes the Trident, and he smiles.

They have no idea.

He holds the Trident loosely in one hand, down at his side like it’s a worthless trinket. It feels almost like a sin to do it, but he hopes that his ancestral weapon will forgive him this small transgression in the face of the greater mission. There is work to be done, after all.

With the rest of their escort behind them, Lunafreya and Ignis make their way out of the palace in a silent, somber parade.

Their path takes them past the ranks of the Niflheim elite, including the High Commander.

Ravus’s eyes widen when he recognizes Ignis.

Ignis stares back at him, unblinking, and raises his hand for a traditional salute. It’s been over a decade since he’s done it, but the blood of the Oracle does not soon forget. The Tenebraen gesture comes easily to him, and for once, the heir salutes a lesser prince.

Ravus, to his credit, doesn’t grant him a personal reaction. He gives a curt nod of acknowledgement, as befits his station, and lets his gaze slide to the next row of soldiers. Ignis internalizes his smile of response. Ravus plays the game well. All three of them do. When he looks at Lunafreya beside him, she’s staring straight ahead, not sparing a glance to the legions who have kept her hostage for twelve years. Instead, she spares a small smile for the common folk that managed to get a spot beside the path, murmuring quiet benedictions as she goes.

Ignis whispers a prayer of his own, hoping that these people will leave the city before the revelation begins in earnest. It will surely destroy the city with the force of every sea. The least he can do is to beg for their salvation. Maybe another god will listen.

The parade ends at the entrance to the Altar of the Tidemother. None but the devout are permitted beyond the gate, if the stories are to be believed, so the Niflheim troops and swarms of commoners halt and let the two of them pass. Ignis steps through the holy archway, barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch the well-worn runes engraved in the stone there. 

Luna leads him down the warm stone pathway, and they ascend the steps to the main platform that overlooks Leviathan’s resting place. This part of the altar is marked by another stone carving that encircles the holy site; when Ignis passes its threshold, the Trident feels even warmer in his hand.

Yes. This is the place.

He throws his gun aside, letting it clatter down the stone steps. He has no need for it here. 

“Now what?” Luna asks, stepping up beside him. She raises her hand to the pendant around her neck - a moon, one of their mother’s treasures, and Ignis is just surprised that he remembers enough to recognize it - and stares out at the still-calm waves. That will change soon enough. Nothing is peaceful forever, least of all this world. Not for Oracles.

“We summon her.” Ignis adjusts his grip on the Trident, attuning himself to the music that vibrates faintly through it. Luna moves closer and puts her hand on his shoulder, grounding him. He looks over at her and tells her, “Luna, I never learned the songs.”

“The songs of summoning?”

“Yes.” Songs of stars and songs of faith and songs of home.

“Mother sang them-”

“When we were children. I remember.” Ignis squeezes her hand. “Will you help me?”

Luna hesitates. “Ignis,” she says slowly, “I am not the Oracle.”

“You don’t have to be. You are my sister, Lunafreya, and our mother’s magic is in us both.” Ignis holds out the Trident, and he says, “Help me.”

Another moment passes. Lunafreya swallows, then stares out at the sea. She takes a deep breath, and then another, and then says, “I will.”

She holds out her hand and places it on the Trident, holding it between the two of them.

And she sings.

The music of the divine spills from her the way it was meant to be sung. Ignis recognizes it from their mother’s lullabies, and he begins to sing along, lending his voice to the song. Luna leads the melody, wordless and ancient, holding out her free hand to reach for the seas.

In their hands, the Trident resonates in harmony, spilling golden light out across the water. It seeks the Tidemother and her might, requesting her presence and her might.

_ Please,  _ Ignis begs in his heart, casting out his prayer as he sings beside his sister.  _ Leviathan, awaken. _

And she rises.

The Tidemother bursts from the sea with a scream. She does not take the form of a human to manifest herself on Eos; instead, she still wears the guise of a beast, massive and impossible and unlike any other creature known to history. Such is her might, that she can create a form known to none but her.

She’s massive beyond words, sending seawater up in a spray to disrupt the distant Walls of Water.

Ignis staggers, stricken by her might, and bows.

She opens her mouth, and out pours the language of the divine, thunderous and impossible.

**_One of you does not belong._ **

Luna steps forward, clasping her hands together before her in something like penitence. “Lady of the Seas, Mother of Tides, I am honored to be in your presence-”

Leviathan roars wordlessly, silencing Lunafreya and screaming over her voice. Luna steps back in surprise, but she still does not cower before the Tidemother.

The fathomless, ancient gaze of the goddess falls on Ignis.

**_Oracle, you dare bring a lesser mortal to the altar of your goddess?_ **

“She is blood of the Oracle,” Ignis replies. “She is as devout as I.”

**_You forget your place._ **

“I know mine.” Ignis points the Trident at the Tidemother, narrowing his eyes. “My duty is to wake the gods, that the Chosen King may rise.”

Luna steps forward, clenching her fists at her side. “Do you know yours?” she demands.

Leviathan roars again, sending a wave at the two of them, forcing them backwards. Ignis braces himself, refusing to be sent away by the goddess before him.

**_Your king will pass my trial, or he will die._ **

Ignis stands firm. “He will pass,” he insists. “I swear it on my life.”

Leviathan roars and lashes her great tail, and the world begins to crack around him. The wind picks up, stronger than Ignis has ever felt it, and he braces himself with the Trident on the altar. Luna holds on tightly to him for support as the city all around them fractures under the weight of the Hydraean’s wrath.

**_Foolish Oracle,_ ** Leviathan sneers.  **_Your life is already forfeit._ **

Ignis swallows.

The trial has begun.

Whirlpools open up in the raging seas around the Tidemother, sending spiraling spouts of water through the air. Fragments of buildings join the maelstrom, defending the goddess against the onslaught of the empire. 

Ignis steps back, holding Lunafreya close.

And then he sees something: a flash of blue light.

And then another, closer to Leviathan, and then again on a fragment of floating stone that might once have been a tower.

“Gods,” he murmurs. “It’s Noct.”

He’s fighting the Tidemother alone.

Such is the responsibility of the Chosen King, but the enormity of the task hits Ignis all at once. Noct may be strong, but he cannot hope to defeat the Tidemother and the empire on his own.

Ignis longs to go to him, but there is nothing he can do. He cannot reach the Hydraean in the middle of her foes’ watery tomb.

Noct holds his own for far longer than any one human should, but he can only whittle away at Leviathan’s strength for so long. Leviathan lashes out, and she catches Noct in the chest with a jet of water, forcing him down onto a crumbled building.

“Noct!” Ignis cries.

“What do we do?” Luna asks. “Has he failed?”

“He can’t,” Ignis says, shaking his head. “He can’t fail.” There is a prophecy to be fulfilled, and this is not yet Noct’s time.

Right?

Leviathan throws her head back and roars.

**_Your king is weak._ **

She turns from Noct and begins attacking the empire’s airships in earnest. Ignis watches the destruction, and he despairs.

A chill creeps down his spine.

“Something’s wrong,” Ignis murmurs, turning to look down the great stone steps of the altar. “Something is coming.”

He recognizes this feeling. 

Darkness.

A shadow falls over them, and Ignis looks up, nearly staggering as the oil-slick darkness works its way into his awareness.

An airship.

It lands just beside them, opening its great maw, and Ardyn Izunia stalks out, coat billowing in the strong winds of the storm.

Luna catches him by the arm before he can reach Ignis. “Do not touch him,” she warns.

Ardyn looks her in the eye, lips curling into an amused smile. “What kind, bold words from an older sister,” he murmurs, voice hauntingly audible over the roar of the Hydraean’s storm. “Do you have any more for me?”

“Those in thrall to darkness will know peace,” she tells him, holding on tightly to his arm. Her hands gleam, glowing just faintly in the sun, and tendrils of pale gold reach out and wrap around the ostentatious sleeve of Ardyn Izunia, chaining him to her with the magic of their line.

_ Light turned outward,  _ Ignis thinks, dazed and desperate.  _ Blood of the Oracle. _

So Luna can wield it too.

For a moment, Ardyn’s eyes soften. The poisonous aura of his power dims slightly, muffled by the soft light of Luna’s power.

Then he bares his teeth, and something flares dark and dangerous in his eyes.

He slaps her.

She glares at him, wiping blood from her mouth.

“Those are the words of an Oracle.” He pulls her close, holding her by the chin, and smiles down at her with teeth bared and bleeding black poison. “Nobody likes a liar, Lunafreya.”

By the time Ignis sees the knife, it’s too late.

Ardyn buries the blade in Lunafreya’s stomach.

She gasps, and her gaze locks with Ignis’s as her eyes go wide with shock and pain. The golden light fades from her fingertips. “No,” she whispers.

Laughing, Ardyn pushes her to the ground. He points the bloodied dagger to a distant fragment of stone that may once have been a building. Noct must be there. “Your Highness!” Ardyn calls across the howling typhoon. “Your bride awaits!”

He looks down at Ignis with a sneer, turns, and boards his airship once more.

Ignis hates him.

He  _ hates  _ him.

The airship rises into the sky, battered but unaffected by the whirlwinds of Leviathan’s wrath. Ignis watches it go, feeling the dark poison of Ardyn’s presence recede. But it’s not worth his attention, and he has his sister to worry about. He turns to her, taking her up in his arms.

“Lunafreya.” She’s so pale already.

“Finish it,” she rasps, holding her hand to her stomach. She coughs a bit, splattering the altar with bright red blood. “The rite.”

Ignis looks to where Noct lies crumpled across the swirling, raging sea. Something in his heart cries out to him to  _ awaken- _

He knows what to do.

The revelation must be completed.

Ignis raises the Trident to the sky, focuses on the armory in his heart, and whispers, “King Regis, your aid, if you could-”

And his vision goes blue.

Ignis opens his eyes, and he sees the world.

He needs to gather the kings.

He runs across the sky over Eos, calling out to kings he has never known. The names come easily to him, and he uses the language of Old Solheim to awaken them, drawing their power from distant tombs. Keycatrich, Ravatogh, the Fallgrove, distant Niflheim-

And Ravus, somewhere in Altissia, holds the final Arm-

He begs them for their power, if only for a moment.

It makes sense to him to beg them  _ use me- _

_ Save Noct. _

The warm pressure of the Trident disappears from between his fingers, slipping upwards and out of his reach. Ignis, still seeing only the swirling, bright blue of the armiger, lets it happen, trusting the magic of gods and kings. This is what Noctis needs.

Sounds filter to him from the swirling mass of blue and gold: divine screams, the howl of the wind, and the clash of steel on steel.

The armiger, unleashed at last.

Ignis casts his blue-blind gaze towards Altissia and wishes he could see Noctis in action.

He’s tying the power of kings to Noct, though, using his own body as a conduit. This is what Noct needs. He will be what Noct needs.

Another distant, terrifying scream, and Ignis feels his face go wet with the spray of seawater.

A defeat.

When he returns to himself, he struggles to catch his breath. He misses the Trident between his fingers, finding instead blood and stone beneath his grasp. Above him, Leviathan looms, bleeding tsunamis down her chest.

**_You are bold, Oracle._ **

“I am doing what it takes,” Ignis snarls. “Since you would rather kill the king than have him fulfill your great prophecy.”

**_You presume much, but your king has prevailed. Let the covenant be forged._ **

Leviathan’s covenant is slow.

With every wave that rises to meet him, power surges into his bones. It trades out with the golden light in his chest, taking it away as it ebbs and flows. Ignis falls to his knees in the bloodied water of the altar, bowing over beside his sister’s body. His agony is more than physical; it carves out a new hole in his chest where he used to be, replacing it instead with the churning fury of the sea. He can hardly breathe around it, drowning in his own dry lungs.

Leviathan looses another eldritch scream as she consumes Ignis’s golden light. She’s gotten what she wants, of course. Her work is almost done.

The empty, broken part of Ignis - larger now, and hungrier - lashes out and snarls a curse to her in a language Ignis has never spoken. Ancient and divine, a tongue Ignis thought he could only understand by listening, it rattles his brain, begging to be spoken aloud. The words yearn to be spit in the face of the Hydraean, and Ignis almost obliges.

She did this to him. She’s the one making him empty.

He hates her, maybe.

The golden part of him cries out in protest, but the sound of it is drowned out by the rushing of tidewater in Ignis’s ears. It’s not like it’s loud enough to make itself heard anyway.

With the goddess satisfied and defeated, the ancient magic of the kings fades from the sky. The light delivers Noct to him from above, lowering his limp body to the sodden stone. Ignis, though he’s loathe to leave Lunafreya behind, drags himself over to his king, scrabbling over rubble and shells and salt. It tears at his hands and knees, but he ignores the pain. Taking Noctis by the arm, he drags him closer, mustering as much strength as he can conjure from the light in his heart.

Noct’s not breathing.

“Noct?” Ignis gasps, holding him by the cheeks. “Gods, Noct, can you hear me?”

There’s no response. He doesn’t know why he expected one. Every remaining shred of sanity and memory tells him that this is not the body of someone who has very long to live.

But no - this is wrong. The gods have ordained that Noct’s death will banish darkness, and that cannot be now. Not now, when Lunafreya lies motionless beside them. Not now, when every fiber of Ignis’s being is devoted to holding off the insistent tidal wave of the covenant in his soul. Not now.

Ignis hasn’t even told Noct that he-

“Noct!” he cries. “Not now!”

_ Heal,  _ his heart begs him, voice hardly above a whisper.

_ Noct, I- _

He presses his forehead to Noct’s, and he prays that he can offer enough of himself to keep him safe. “Blessed stars of life and light,” he gasps, choking on sea salt and tears. The blessing pours out of him and into Noct, scraping his veins with brine as it goes. Ignis can feel it weave its way into the fabric of Noct’s flesh, closing the worst of the wounds that Leviathan inflicted upon him. In his arms, Noct’s breathing stutters and starts again, and though his eyes remain closed, he coughs up seawater.

Ignis kisses him on the forehead, wild and desperate, and all he can feel through the exhaustion is relief.

He’s breathing. He’s alive. That will have to be enough.

Above him, Leviathan lets out an eldritch scream, and Ignis raises his head to meet her unforgiving eyes.

**_The revelation is complete._ **

The goddess glimmers with blue light - Ignis’s light, twisted and bartered away - and throws back her head to roar once more. This time, her call is wordless and formless, wild as the untamed sea.

It’s time.

Ignis holds Noctis in his arms so that he might receive Leviathan’s blessing, presenting him to the goddess of the seas. The covenant drains from him with the same agonizing ebb and flow, filling his lungs with seawater on its way from his soul to Noct’s. He chokes around it, coughing up brine and blood, but he does not let go of his king.

Perhaps it’s worse that he hardly knew the weight of the Tidemother’s power; every part of him is in turmoil now, set adrift by the hurricane of her passing. Still, his veins struggle to pump seawater and blood through his veins, forcing the pain of her departure into every fiber of his being.

Most of his blood ends up in his mouth anyway, or at least it feels like it.

He hopes that Noctis has received the blessing; maybe it’s just the spinning lightness in his head, but he thinks he can see a faint glow of red from beneath Noct’s eyelids. His gaze should be going scarlet as his veins begin to pump saltwater along with the blood of kings.

There are only two covenants left to give him.

With a free hand, he holds onto Lunafreya’s hand, despairing when he feels the gentle pulse of her golden light run too faint, too slow.

_ Not her,  _ he begs the gods, or any god except the Tidemother.  _ Not now. _

As if in response, the world shudders and shakes around him. 

And Titan rises up from the sea.

He’s come to defend them: this, Ignis knows for sure. The golden light that he gave to Titan is still there, and he recognizes it, and he implores it to keep him safe.

Leviathan throws her head back and bellows out a challenge. Titan roars out in response, wordless and furious, and raises his arm to strike. Slowly, his massive fist shatters through the water’s surface, hitting the sea floor below, and he shakes the earth. Pillars of stone rise up from the sea, blocking Leviathan’s wrath for the moment, but still the tides rise.

Ignis despairs.

They’re going to drown here.

Leviathan’s fury sends a final wave towards him.

_ Not yet- _

With the last fragment of Leviathan’s power that still sends seawater through his veins, Ignis raises his hand and prays for salvation.

The water responds to his plea, or at least he hopes it does. The frigid magic at the center of his heart rushes through his veins, and Ignis has never done this sort of magic without a conduit before, but he obeys his instincts and lets the winter take him.

The waves turn to ice.

Ignis sits in the middle of a frozen sphere, blinking up at the wondrous, impossible magic of his goddess.

It’s not enough.

The sphere cracks.

The waves crash.

Ignis knows nothing but blue, and blue, and blue.

 

* * *

 

_ He wakes in Tenebrae. _

_ It’s surely past teatime; Mother will be cross with him for running away again. It’s not his fault he enjoys lying down in the sylleblossoms and staring at the sky. _

_ He’s not alone. _

_ There’s somebody else here in the sylleblossoms. A child, dressed all in black. Nobody wears black at the Manor except- _

_ “Noctis?” he says, stumbling towards him through the fields. “Prince Noctis, you should be resting!” _

_ He turns to Ignis, eyes lighting up in a smile. “Ignis!” He runs up to Ignis, little black jacket flying out behind him, and grins. “Where’s Pryna?” _

_ “Gone,” Ignis says, though he does not know why. “Or not here. I’m here, though.” He crouches down so he’s below the prince’s eye level. “Why have you found me?” _

_ Prince Noctis smiles and takes his hands. “I missed you.” _

_ Oh. That’s nice. Ignis blushes. “I missed you too, Your Highness.” _

_ “Your fate is mine, as mine is yours,” Noctis tells him, swinging their hands together. “Remember?” _

_ “I remember.” _

_ Noctis smiles. “Good.” He points behind Ignis. “Who’s that?” _

_ Ignis turns. _

_ He sees a young woman dressed in his mother’s favorite dress, golden hair floating behind her, buoyed in water none of them can feel. _

_ “Luna!” _

_ She smiles sadly, and her eyes are full of moonlight. “Ignis,” she murmurs. “My little brother.” _

_ Ignis steps forward, but he can’t quite reach her. “Luna, why are you so sad?” He pushes his glasses up on his nose.  _

_ Wait. _

_ Something is wrong. _

_ Shouldn’t he be remembering something? _

_ When he looks down again, the ground is further away. He’s aged in a heartbeat, dressed in a torn white uniform of white and gold, stained and heavy with seawater and blood. He’s not sure if it’s his own or someone else’s or both. A soldier, maybe? _

_ No. _

_ This is the raiment of an Oracle. Of a king. _

_ Right, he remembers. He is the king, and his mother- _

_ What did her face- _

_ He cannot remember. _

_ “Ignis. Come back to me.” _

_ Had he been spiraling? Ignis tries to breathe, and realizes that he’s panting around tears or panic. Something is desperately, desperately wrong.  _

_ And there stands Luna. _

_ Older. _

_ An Oracle in name. _

_ The weak, desperate, terrified part of him asks,  _ Why couldn’t it have been you?

_ Why couldn’t she have been the one to bear this burden? _

_ He just wants to stop hurting. _

_ But isn’t she- _

_ “Ignis, please,” she begs. “If my body fails me-” _

_ “Don’t say that, Luna.” He knows what she means. Something is wrong. _

_ “The Ring,” she insists. “You must become its bearer. Grant it to Noct. Something waits for him that is far beyond my control. You must know.” _

_ “Know what?” Ignis asks. “Luna, what do you mean?” _

_ She shakes her head.  _

_ He turns, but Noct is no longer beside him. “Noct?” he calls, frantic, because no, no, he can’t have lost him too. _

_ “Finish this,” Lunafreya begs of him, and she holds out the Ring of the Lucii. _

_ Ignis reaches, and he reaches, and the world dissolves into blue once more- _

He wakes.

Again.

This time, he gasps and immediately coughs, spitting seawater out of his mouth. He rolls over onto his stomach, bracing himself on his forearms while he tries to get his bearings. It must still be the altar; the stairs to the main platform lie just ahead. The ground beneath him is cold and wet, and the air all around smells of petrichor and smoke. The sun has disappeared, though whether it’s behind clouds or nightfall is anyone’s guess.

Ignis looks to his side, and Noctis and Lunafreya lie unmoving beside him on the stones of the altar. He reaches out to them, hand trembling, but he can’t quite reach them.

A whine distracts him, and he turns his head, hearing the soft scratch of claws on stone. Pryna collapses by his side, flanks heaving. There’s blood on her white fur.

“Pryna,” he murmurs, and he reaches out to ruffle the fur between her ears.

She whines and pushes her head into the palm of his hand. He can hardly resist the movement, weakly as Pryna is pushing him. It’s hard to keep his hand aloft; even now, his arms are shaking. But Pryna seems even worse.

“Where does it hurt?” he asks her, feeling along her rain-sodden flanks. His bare fingers come away warmer than expected, and in the dim light of the storm he sees the darkness of his dear friend’s blood. “Oh, Pryna,” he murmurs, despairing. How much of his power will it take to heal the divine?

He can sense the feral poison on the wound; it’s from the same knife that stabbed Luna for sure.

The chancellor did this.

He’s not sure what he can do for her.

“Pryna,” he whispers again, coughing around saltwater. 

Pryna whines once more, lays her head down, and looks him in the eye. There’s something in her gaze that breaks Ignis’s heart. 

Why does everything on this day feel like finality?

The blue in her eye gleams, and then grows, and suddenly Ignis is blinded by white light.

A flash.

He sees a face.

Distantly, he hears himself ask, “Who is that?”

Some part of him knows. It knows, and it hates the truth.

And then he hears the voice.

It is one of the voices he has not yet heard, but he knows its source all the same. There is no mistaking the rumbling might of the divine. There is no mistaking the sound of pure steel in a voice.

**_A power greater than that of the Six-_ **

And he sees-

A king on a crumbling throne.

“No,” Ignis whispers. “No, I know this. I know those words.”

That must be many years in the future. That king is too old, and that throne room is full of rubble and darkness and corpses.

But his face is familiar-

_ Wait. _

The king dissolves into sparks.

“Come back!” Ignis begs, but his words are carried away on silver wind, dissolving with the memory.

And he sees four men around a campfire, sobbing-

That’s his own face.

Mangled and scarred and different, yes, and he wears Lucian black, but that is Ignis, and he cries to mourn the king-

Back in the throne room.

Noctis. The king-

It’s him.

He’s dying.

Not like this.

He was supposed to be noble. He was supposed to die a hero.

Not like this.

Not screaming, not burning, not with the souls of kings tearing their way out of his body to consume the darkness.

Not alone.

“Noct!” he cries, but his words don’t reach the phantom king. Noct walks away from him, climbing the shattered stairs of the Citadel, walking away towards his certain doom.

Nothing works, nothing works, it was all a lie-

He blinks, and he is in the rain, and Pryna breathes her last breath beneath his touch.

“Pryna,” he sobs, but she falls still anyway, eyes going blue and glassy.

Ignis pulls himself closer to her, running her fingers through her rain-soaked fur. Not Pryna. Pryna is divine; she’s unkillable. Right?

Right?

Pryna is his oldest friend. She cannot leave him behind. She cannot leave him here. Not now, when she has told him a truth he barely understands.

“Ignis! Lunafreya!”

Ravus stumbles up to them, rain-drenched and panicked. He looks over all of them and lets out a soft, desperate gasp. “Gods,” he says, falling to his knees beside Ignis. “All is lost.”

“Ravus,” Ignis rasps. “Ravus, Pryna…” Can’t he do something? Ravus is his big brother, he can fix this-

But Ravus just coughs out a surprised sob and reaches out for her small, still body. “Pryna,” he whispers, bowing over her. “Pryna, my dear friend.” His shoulders shake with the force of his grief.

Ignis coughs and stares at the sky, eyes burning with tears. They sting on their way down his cheeks. It seems he cannot escape the sea.

Ravus shakes beside him and whispers a quiet prayer. It’s an old one, meant to implore the gods to take mercy on one’s soul. Do Messengers get that same mercy? When he’s done, he looks up, clenching his magitek fingers so hard that his metallic fingers scrape through stone. His eyes focus on Noctis, and Ignis gasps around the pulse of darkness in his heart. “You,” he hisses at Noct’s still body. “This is all your fault!” He springs to his feet, reaches for his sword, and raises it above his head.

_ Wait- _

“No!” Ignis screams. “Ravus, you can’t!”

Ravus bares his teeth, staring wild-eyed down at Ignis. “Don’t you see? This is the doing of the Lucians. Everything that has happened to us is because of him!”

“This is no one person’s fault!” Ignis cries.

“Is this what you call morality? Nobility? The honor of the Oracle? Staying by the side of those who repaid our hospitality with the corpse of our mother? No more, Ignis. It is because of  _ him-”  _ He points the wicked end of his saber at Noctis, and his lavender eye flares violet- “that our sister lies injured!”

“I can heal her, Ravus,  _ please-” _

“But you fail to understand that this goes beyond this moment! If the Caelum boy lives, how many others will he put in harm’s way? How much more will he take from you, Ignis?”

“All that he has from me, I have freely given!”

Ravus lets out a wordless, desperate yell, eyes gleaming in a way that makes Ignis’s stuttering, empty heart recoil. He clenches his magitek fist; the violet accents of it shine dangerously. “You have given your life, Ignis!”

“I’m alive!”

“And for how long?” Ravus’s shoulders heave with the force of his fury. “You are not the brother I knew, Ignis.”

There’s a savage echo behind his words that Ignis fears. It’s like the roar of an iron giant beyond the safety of a haven. Ignis realizes the truth of Ravus’s fury, and how he is so upset over the fact that Luna is lying injured that he’s more willing to kill Noct than to hear reason. 

He cannot let that happen.

There is work to be done.

He staggers to his feet and reaches down into the armory in his heart. He pulls his last curative from the ether. The glass of the elixir shatters in his fingers, and the magic of Lucis washes over him in a familiar rush. The curative lends him new strength, bolstering enough of his flagging strength to keep him from collapsing to the ground again.

It’s a temporary fix, but it’s enough.

Ignis holds his hands out to his sides and snarls, “I will not let you harm him, Ravus.” He clenches his fists, and his daggers appear in his grasp. He crosses them before his chest, and when he slashes them back down, they burst into flame.

Flame is for focus. Flame is for rage.

Ravus snarls, and there’s the sickly familiar echo once more. His left eye gleams wickedly. “A fight, then.”

And he lunges.

Ignis raises his blades to meet him, batting away his attack. “Ravus,” he warns.

Ravus doesn’t reply; he runs his hand along his blade, igniting it with savage electricity.

“No,” Ignis murmurs, stepping back. Despite the flamebound daggers in his hands, he feels so cold.

“Yes,” Ravus replies cruelly, and he slashes at Ignis once more.

Ignis blocks the strike again. The sparks arc along their blades, radiating down into Ignis’s bare hands. Ignis flinches and yells; he hates the feral magic of the lightning. It runs down into his heart, reminding him of the agony of Ramuh’s covenant. He craves it and hates it and despairs at its touch, trying to force his heart back into rhythm as it speeds and stutters along with the hum of the lightning.

He gathers his strength and flips out of the way, twirling through the air to escape the lightning. When he lands, he meets Ravus’s eyes from across the altar, flipping his flamebound daggers in his hands. “Come on, Ravus, this isn’t you!” Already, his strength is flagging. He wheezes, trying not to cough, and feels the tightness in his chest once more.

If this is to become a battle of attrition, he’s ready for it. He would rather die than kill Ravus. All he can hope to do is outlast him.

He doesn’t like his chances.

“Ravus!” he cries. “Yield!”

Yelling again, Ravus runs forward, swinging his blade over his head towards Ignis’s neck. Ignis ducks and crosses his blades over his head, catching Ravus’s sword where they cross. It’s eerily similar to when Ravus attacked Gladio in Aracheole Stronghold, and now there is more than spite fueling his brother. There is hate and something far, far worse.

“What are you doing?” he asks, legs giving out beneath the force of Ravus’s rage. “Ravus, please! It’s me! It’s me!”

“Just let me end this!” Ravus snarls.

Ignis shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that, brother! Luna needs you. I need you.”

Ravus hesitates. “Ignis-”

“Please,” Ignis begs.

And Ravus-

The fight goes out of him.

“Ignis, oh gods, what have I done?” Ravus steps back, sheathing his sword, and puts his head in his hands. “Ignis, I-” His voice is so broken. Ignis has never heard him so destroyed. He meets Ignis’s eyes, and the violet fury is gone from his left eye, turning it pale lavender once more.

Ignis staggers, letting his knives drop to the ground. “Ravus,” he rasps. Everything is spinning.

Ravus rushes forward, but now he catches Ignis instead of knocking him down. He bends to catch Ignis before he falls to the ground, scooping him up in his arms. “Ignis, what can I do to-”

“Lunafreya.” He must save her before she ends up like-

Like the king in his vision-

Like Pryna-

“Luna?” Ravus repeats.

“Just...just bring me to her.”

Ignis whimpers softly at the miserable darkness of Ravus’s arm around him. Ravus murmurs a quiet apology into his hair, holding him close, and adjusts his grip so he touches Ignis with as little of the arm as he can manage. Ignis appreciates the effort, trying to ignore the cold, creeping weight of the magitek presence.

Ravus brings him back to where Ignis’s sister and king lie unconscious. Ignis falls to his knees beside Lunafreya, reaching out for her. 

“Can it be done?” Ravus whispers.

Ignis pushes Luna’s hair out of her face, casting his senses out to try to figure out the extent of her injury. “It has to,” he murmurs. He’s not sure what he will do if Ardyn dares take her away from him. “It has to.”

There is no Starscourge in her body, but he knows this imperative better than he knows his own name, so he  _ heals- _

There is so much work to be done. 

This is more than any blessing or purging of the Starscourge. All Ignis can feel is the draining, terrifying emptiness in Lunafreya’s body where her lifeblood used to be, and the gaping She’s dying, but slowly. Ardyn did not grant her a swift death, and for once Ignis must thank him. That gives him time.

Ignis sets to work, spreading his hand across the wound and focusing on the bright power that shines out from between the black holes in his chest. It is harder work than granting a blessing, and not nearly as simple as letting his light rise up and consume the darkness of their world’s phantom illness. This requires mending without tools and sewing without a needle. This requires more of him than he may be able to give. 

But he gives, because that is what he is good for.

And Luna’s light flares back to life.

Ignis falls back from her, heart lurching out of rhythm, struggling against the vacuum of the void within him.

“I can’t-” he gasps. “Can’t breathe.”

He can. He  _ can,  _ and he will, because there is still work to be done.

But still he splays his fingers on the sodden stones and struggles to hold himself aloft. He coughs, choking around air and nothingness, and dark blood splatters into the puddles below him. He’s done too much. 

“Ignis.”

He can’t even look up to acknowledge him. Ignis presses his forehead to the ground, falling forward when his arms refuse to hold him aloft. He curls on his side between Noct and Luna, panting into the rain. His breath barely creates a fog before his face; it’s cold enough coming from his lungs; there’s hardly enough warmth in his chest to overcome the ice of his covenant.

A hand finds its way into his hair. Ignis trusts it immediately, letting his eyes slip shut. There’s only one person this could be.

“I always knew you’d be the right kind of Oracle,” Ravus whispers. “I’m so sorry I took so long to realize it.”

Ignis tries his best to smile. “Ravus,” he replies softly, “You are always forgiven.”

Ravus bows his head, pressing a kiss to Ignis’s rain-soaked hairline, and says, “Take this. I don’t have much to give, but-” And he stops, choosing instead to smooth Ignis’s hair back from his forehead, and where his human hand goes, so too does a familiar warmth. Ravus lends him strength of his own.

_ No,  _ Ignis thinks faintly. Doesn’t Ravus need that to hold off the horrible might of his false arm?

But he can’t find the words to protest, so he welcomes the light, recognizing Ravus’s silver strength in its warmth. It joins the rest of his power, tucked away beside the armiger and the covenant of Shiva, and he cherishes it.

It helps him feel not quite close to passing out anymore, and that’s what counts.

The four of them sit together in the rain; Ravus and Ignis each hold one of Luna’s hands, and Ignis keeps his other hand on Noct. 

Ignis prays that somebody will come save them.

His prayers, for once, are answered.

Footsteps, heavy and fast, splash towards them from down the altar. “Iggy!”

Ignis gasps. “Gladio,” he murmurs.

“Can he be trusted?” Ravus asks. 

“Always,” Ignis promises.

Gladio rushes up to them, and Ignis knows that something is wrong.

He grits his teeth against the rising wave of nausea that gleams an oily black across every fiber of his being. He’s too lightheaded for this already; he’s not sure how much more of this he can take.

“Gladio,” he says, gasping when the words send pain lancing through his lungs. “Where’s Prompto?”

He goes unanswered. “Well, well,” Gladio purrs, sauntering past Ignis. “What do we have here?”

What is he doing? He should be helping Noct or Ignis or Lunafreya. “Gladio,” he manages to say. “Put aside your vendettas for now.” He’d hopes that Gladio’s trials would alleviate some of his ill will towards Ravus, but it seems that right now it transcends even duty.

Gladio ignores him and stands over Ravus.

Ravus bares his teeth up at him. “You,” he snarls, and then, with eyes flaring violet, hisses, “Ardyn.”

_ No- _

Gladio smiles, and that is when Ignis knows that this cannot be his dear friend. Gladio does not look like that. He has never seen a smile that hasn’t reached Gladio’s eyes.

This time, his amber eyes are cold. They flare bright, poisonous gold.

“Oh, dear,” he says, and the words in his voice sound  _ wrong.  _ “Was I that transparent?”

Ravus stands to meet him, drawing his sword once more. “You monster!” he hisses.

Gladio - not Gladio,  _ Ardyn  _ \- takes a bow, unaffected by the sword point in his face. As he does, he sweeps his hand down, and the world shudders and shifts, and the darkness of the illusion lifts to reveal the chancellor with his hat in hand, taking a bow before conjuring purple fire in his hand.

Ignis’s heart sinks. He’s magical. Of course he is. The sheer poison of his presence wasn’t enough, it seems.

“Don’t touch them,” Ravus warns, and he draws back his sword to strike.

“I don’t think so,” Ardyn replies lazily, and he punchs Ravus in the chest with his flaming hand. He sends Ravus spiraling back into the hard steps of the altar. His body makes a sickening crunching sound when he hits the stone, and he falls limp. 

“Ravus!” Ignis cries.

“Ah,” Ardyn simpers. “What a shame.” He turns to Ignis. “Is it your turn now, Your Highness?”

Better him than any of the others, really. He’d expendable enough. With his remaining strength, he throws himself across Noct’s body, firmly placing himself between Ardyn and the three people he holds most dear. “I won’t let you,” he snarls. He reaches down, takes the Ring from Noct’s hand, and holds on tightly to it. If Ignis holds the Ring of the Lucii, then the king in Pryna’s vision won’t have it, and Ignis can stop that future from coming to pass. 

He hopes.

That, or he’s now holding a weapon.

Ardyn steps closer, letting the violet poison drip from his fingers once more.

Now is the time to act. Ignis swallows his fear and his blood. He lunges for the gun that he’d dropped before the rite, takes aim the way Prompto taught him, and fires it at Ardyn’s head.

The  _ crack  _ of the shot echoes around the rainy ruins of Altissia. The chancellor drops to the ground, dead before he reaches the sodden stones. 

The rain falls on the altar, and on Ardyn Izunia’s still, bloodstained form.

Ignis pants into the air, hanging his head.

The magitek troopers only stare.

Is it over?

Ignis drops the gun and crawls backwards, dragging himself closer to Noctis and Lunafreya. He feels for pulses with shaking fingers, just in case something’s changed. Maybe they’re still living; he can hardly tell, and when he removes his hands from their necks, he leaves bloody fingerprints on their pale skin. 

Ravus - can he get to Ravus and check on him?

Where’s Gladio? Where’s Prompto?

He drags in a shaking breath, trying not to think about the possibilities of what has befallen them. No. They’re fine. They have to be fine.

And then-

Ardyn’s corpse moves.

Ignis freezes where he is, turning to watch the chancellor stand to his feet, pushing his rain-soaked hair out of his face. Ardyn places his fingers to the wound, and they come away drenched in red and black. He studies them for a moment, blinking black blood out of his ruined eyes, and looks at Ignis. “A clever ploy,” he purrs, “but guns were never your greatest weapon.”

Ignis stares up at him in horror. “No,” he whispers. “It can’t be.” He’s unkillable. He’s immortal.

Ardyn saunters up to him, and purple fire coils around his bloodied fingers. The mere sight of it has Ignis retching around air, tasting only blood in his mouth. “My Oracle,” he hums. “You poor, poor fool.”

He reaches down and grabs Ignis’s face with his bare, glowing hands.

Ignis screams.

The undiluted darkness pierces through him, racing across every synapse and into his bones. Part of him reaches out to welcome it, desperate for anything to fill the void, but the rest of him his light of gold and blue, and it cries out for salvation.

It’s too much.

_ Heal- _

It’s too much.

Ignis screams until all he can taste is blood and fear, and the light in him recoils and fades, and fades, and he cannot remember where-

_ Noct- _

His heart stutters and stops and starts once more, forgetting the rhythm of life. Ignis would choke around the tightness in his chest were he not already screaming-

_ Noct- _

He can’t-

_ Noct- _

“Sleep,” Ardyn purrs, and Ignis falls back on obedience; he’ll listen to anything that will end this,  _ anything, please- _

The screams fade, or maybe just his hearing does.

And then the lights.

_ Noct- _

He falls.


	19. tenebrae.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let him be the king of ashes.

He wakes slowly, and not in the pleasant way.

This awakening is more like he’s dragging himself from his own grave than rising with the sun. Something weighs on his eyelids, begging him not to force them open, as if his body knows that he won’t like what he sees.

But the last thing he remembers, before the pain, the  _ pain- _

_ Noct- _

The altar. The Tidemother.

_ Noct- _

She raged, and they fell, and Ignis gave himself to her-

_ Noct- _

Isn’t there a ring in his pocket?

But the ring is for Noct; he was always meant to give a ring to Noct, but this is the Ring, and it brings only hardship.

He focuses on the weight in his pocket, letting it ground him with the full force of gods and kings, and he opens his eyes.

He’s not in Altissia anymore. 

He’s lying on the floor of a ship.

Niflheim make, surely. He recognizes it from his journey to Angelgard and his time in Aranea’s dropship. This is the work of his enemies.

This airship is a more militant model, with sections that fold out on the sides like balconies to allow soldiers better views of the outside. There are mounted firearms out there as well, from what Ignis can see. This ship is ready for war.

And there is the cause of the heaviness in his chest, clad in black and gray and red.

Ardyn Izunia.

Ignis hates him.

Before he can stop it, a growl rises in his chest, and it whispers in the language of the divine. It’s the golden light, or maybe it’s the larger part, the void where he used to be. Maybe it’s the part of him that hated Leviathan. Maybe it’s the part of him that hates the prophecy that he saw, bathed in blood and starlight.

All he knows is that he  _ hates. _

And he’s not quiet about it.

The chancellor turns. “Ah!” Ardyn says, bending to meet his eyes. “You’re awake. I was concerned for a few hours that you’d die, and that I’d have to fetch another Oracle.”

_ Another.  _ If Luna ended up surviving, that means there are still two people who can take up Ignis’s mantle should he fall. That is a relief, at least. The legacy of the Oracle can live on beyond him. Ignis grits his teeth and looks away, refusing to meet the chancellor’s eyes. Already, bile rises in the back of his throat because of the mere proximity to the savage darkness Ardyn exudes.

“That’s impolite, my friend. A prince looks his equals in the eye.”

“Your empire is built on lies and the murder of gods,” Ignis mutters, still staring away. “Your title means nothing to me.”

“You are still so narrow-minded, Lord Fleuret, if you assume I meant Niflheim.” Ardyn’s footsteps move away, and with them the darkness recedes, if only a little bit. Ignis dares to look up to him; it’s easier to study him when his poisonous golden eyes aren’t staring back at him.

A magitek trooper clanks up to Ardyn. In its grating, tortured voice, it says, “Sir. Commodore Highwind’s ship approaches.”

Ardyn raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Approaching Altissia or pursuing us?”

“Approaching Altissia.”

Ignis frowns.  _ Aranea. _ She must be coming for the rescue efforts, or for Luna. Coming for the Oracle she’s always known. He recalls their conversation in Steyliff Grove, and how she’d had her doubts about the empire. 

“Mm.” Ardyn tuts quietly, staring out at the world below. “She’s off her assignment.” He looks down at Ignis and says, “Some soldiers never do learn how to follow orders. It’s a pity, truly.” He says it with such a conspiratorial, familiar tone that Ignis’s skin crawls. When Ignis offers no response, Ardyn sighs and turns to his officer once more. He orders, with a soft, almost-regretful sigh, “Shoot it down if you must.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No,” Ignis protests weakly. “Don’t.”

With a soft, amused smile, Ardyn shakes his head. “We must all be punished, my dear prince.”

“I am not  _ your prince.” _

“Are you not the people’s Oracle?” Ardyn asks. “Are you not sworn to all of the gods’ children?”

“I am not sworn to god killers.”

That brings a soft laugh from Ardyn, who walks towards the balcony section of the airship. “It seems that the Fleurets are harder to break than I’d anticipated.”

“I have never bowed to you,” Ignis snarls.

“No,” Ardyn agrees, and he looks Ignis in the eye. His gaze chills Ignis to the bone. “No, Ignis. You ran.”

And there it is again.

The shame.

“Shall we stop in Tenebrae?” Ardyn gestures out towards the high mountains all around them. “The manor is close by here. Do you remember, Your Majesty?”

Ignis follows his gaze.

He recognizes these hills. This water. These ancient valleys. These are the rivers carved through stone by the might of Leviathan herself. Those are the pale blue smatterings of sylleblossom patches in the midst of all the green grass and windswept crags. It stirs up ancient memories that he’d long since thought he lost when he forged the covenants, and his heart aches to see them once more.

He breathes, “Yes.”

“Your homeland,” Ardyn tells him. “After all this time, it has been waiting to welcome you back.”

Ignis crawls forward to the open air, pulling himself closer to the balcony. 

Gods, there’s Fenestala Manor.

He’s not been this close in ages.

If he could just see it once more, maybe he could find some sort of clarity. Maybe he could make sense of the vision he was given at the altar before Pryna passed away. Maybe he can find the Draconian and ask him about the truth of what he’d seen. Bahamut must have been lying when he said Noctis had to die.

He must have.

He’s following Ardyn’s plans. He’s not struggling. Perhaps a reward is in order.

And he dares to hope.

“Yes,” he breathes before he can control himself. “Yes, I’d like to see my home once more.”

Ardyn smiles. “Splendid.”

He turns to a trooper dressed in full metal armor. Ignis can only hope that there is a human face behind the impassive mask. It looks at Ardyn, waiting for whatever command he may give.

Ardyn leans in close to the trooper, still wearing the soft grin of a diplomat.

“Burn it all.”

_ Wait- _

Ignis lunges forward, but he’s too weak to get far at all. “No!” he cries. “You can’t!”

“Can’t I?” Ardyn widens his eyes of sulfur, innocuous and deceptively sweet. He taps the trooper on the cheek, sending it off to carry out its orders, and he saunters over to Ignis. “It will be a familiar homecoming, I think.” Ardyn leans in close. “You’ll recognize the sight. I can imagine it now: Fenestala Manor in flames, so like twelve years ago. You do remember, don’t you?”

Ignis opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. He can’t. He can’t. Not home, he was so  _ close,  _ gods above  _ please- _

Ardyn’s eyes flash. His hand lashes out, lightning fast, and takes hold of Ignis’s jaw. His touch burns, but Ignis can’t do a thing about it. “I asked you a question, Ignis,” he says sweetly, and his grip tightens. Nails dig into the flesh of his chin. “Do you remember when Tenebrae burned?”

Ignis nods, horrified. Gods, it was never Aldercapt at all. It was Ardyn, always Ardyn-

“Then this will be the perfect way for you to see your home once more.”

“I hate you,” Ignis snarls. 

“That’s unbecoming of an Oracle.” Ardyn turns Ignis’s head this way and that, looking deep into his eyes. “Hatred. It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? When did you first feel it?”

Ignis says nothing.

“As I thought. I can guess, if you’d like. The Fall of Insomnia? No, too early; that was just shock and protectiveness. What of your separation from your king? Desperation, perhaps. But, oh.” And here he stops, and a horrible saccharine grin crosses his lips. “Oh, yes. Caligo Ulldor. A murderer who came for those you loved. He hurt your beloved Noctis-”

“Don’t,” Ignis growls. “Don’t say his name.”

“He speaks!” Ardyn purrs. “There’s that fury, my friend. Stoke its flames. It’ll match your homeland soon enough.”

Ignis struggles and yells, wordless and furious. He knows he’s feeding into Ardyn’s dark game, but all he can feel is  _ hate- _

Ardyn smiles. He turns to his mechanical protector and says, “Whenever you’re ready, Commander.”

Once more, Ignis yells, and his golden light lashes out, briefly filling the airship with the song of the Astrals. It has always been strongest in the homeland of his line, after all.

It almost works.

Ardyn’s grip falters, and the sound that rips itself from his throat is far from human. It sounds like a word in a language as old as time and gods, the antithesis to golden light. It sounds like a plea or a challenge or something worse. And for a moment, Ignis dares to call this a victory.

But the light fades, leaving him breathless, and Ardyn Izunia still sneers down at him.

“You are clever, Ignis, but I’m afraid you’ve not nearly the power to harm me.” Ardyn wipes a drop of black ichor from the corner of his mouth and adjusts his hat once more. “Here, let’s get a better view, shall we?” Without waiting for a response, Ardyn drags Ignis across the closer to the edge of the airship’s balcony, turning him so that he faces outwards to his homeland.

Ignis shuts his eyes.

He will not look.

Will not-

He knows it from the moment the heat blooms across his face.

_ No. _

And then the smoke.

And then the screams.

_ No. _

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He won’t look.

Brutal fingers thread through Ignis’s hair, holding him up and facing him towards the horrors below. By the way Ignis’s entire body screams in protest, he knows that it’s Ardyn. He holds Ignis by the head, insistent and firm.

“Watch,” he hisses in Ignis’s ear.

Ignis furiously shakes his head, wincing at the way Ardyn’s grip makes the movement burn. With eyes screwed shut, he faces the world below him, dreading the heat that radiates up to his face even from this height. His eyes stream with tears that leak past his eyelids, pushed by smoke and pain and grief.

“Open your eyes, Ignis,” Ardyn croons.

He won’t. He won’t. Not home. Not like this.

Unable to control himself, he lets a choked sob rip itself from his lungs, struggling weakly against the chancellor’s grip, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He won’t let Ardyn win this one; he won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Ah, that won’t do.”

Something drops in Ignis’s stomach, and he feels all at once nauseous. It feels as if everything has come to a screeching halt.

The world goes silent.

No more burning. No more screams.

He can still smell the smoke.

“You’ve seen my powers of disguise, little one, but I’m so much more than that.” Ardyn’s fingernails dig into the top of Ignis’s head. “I’ll hold this moment until you look.” 

Ignis shakes his head. He won’t look. He won’t. He can’t, or-

He doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“You’ll find that I have patience that far surpasses yours. I’ve perfected the art of waiting.”

The longer he waits, the longer Tenebrae will hang in anticipation, avoiding any further tragedy. 

“I’ll die before-”

“You will,” Ardyn agrees placidly. “You’ll die, and Tenebrae will still burn. Perhaps I can fetch dear Lunafreya and give her a tour of the ashes.”

_ No. _

_ Not her too. _

He opens his eyes.

For a moment, the world hangs in perfect, terrible stasis, and he’s treated to the image of how flames look when they’re frozen, temporarily staving off their terrible destructive hunger. They’re low enough that Ignis can see the hundreds of citizens held captive as they run through the fields and cobbled streets, fleeing across smoke-stained bridges over the valleys. He’s glad that he can’t see their terror up close, or he fears he’d never be able to endure this. Already, it aches. It aches.

_ My people. _

He did this to them.

_ I am so sorry.  _

“Your kingdom,” Ardyn announces, sweeping his arm outward, and the world falls back into motion, filling the air with screams. “All yours. It always had to end this way, dear friend. Someone must always be the king of ashes.”

Ignis sobs.

“My dear pet will like it here, I think.” Ardyn’s finger beckons to the flames, and something howls from within.

He might have seen this once, in a dream long ago. A dream before war, before the Fall, before Altissia and covenants and pain.

But all he sees is what is in the present. He can hardly remember the past.

The creature materializes from the flames, three-headed and terrible. It’s a dog, or a cruel parody of it, and it leaps onto the rooftops of the city in the mountains, sending stonework crumbling towards the earth.

“I’d send in a dear friend of mine as well, but I fear that would be...what’s the word? Overkill.” Ardyn pats the top of Ignis’s head; though he’s gentle with it, his strength is still more than Ignis can take, and he drops onto his hands for support, bowing over the platform overlooking his homeland’s destruction. “I am glad you’re here to see this.”

“No,” Ignis chokes out, and the word rips itself from his chest with such force that he can feel the raw power of his golden light lashing out to  _ heal, heal, heal- _

There’s no saving this.

Tenebrae is burning, and Ignis can only watch.

“Beautiful beyond measure,” Ardyn breathes, and when Ignis dares to look up at him, the chancellor’s eyes gleam gold in the light of burning sylleblossoms.

_ “I’ll come back,” Ignis tells Gentiana, staring up at her with wide green eyes that have already seen a kingdom fall. “I promise.” _

_ Gentiana’s eyes are so, so sad. “Child,” she says. “One day you will learn the weight of promises.” _

It was all a joke. A cruel joke by gods and men and daemons, and here Ignis is, bringing the wrath of Niflheim once more upon his homeland because he dared to hope he could be happy.

Ignis 

He’d thought he could bring Noct here, before the end.

Before the prophecy.

But instead-

He breaks.

There are few sensations that Ignis has not yet felt, and fewer feelings. Hatred is new, but it burns in his heart all the same.

But pain is constant. He has always known pain.

Nothing,  _ nothing,  _ could have prepared him for the feeling of his golden strength shattering.

And he’s left hollow.

“There we are.” Ardyn’s hand in his hair slackens. “That’s enough of this.”

Ignis catches himself on his hands, scraping his bare fingers on the gritty ash that has drifted to rest on the metal balcony. Embers drift up and alight on his skin, setting his nerves afire with brief flashes of pain. Ignis bears the weight of the pain, staring out at his kingdom until his eyes burn with smoke and he’s forced to blink his tears away. The airship rumbles beneath him and begins to rise, forsaking Ignis’s people and heading further inland. 

When he’s lost sight of the spires of Fenestala Manor, Ignis finally hangs his head, catching his breath. He’d not realized how much he’d been panting around the stress of seeing his home turned to ash. The gut-wrenching sobs have left him hollow and wrung-out, pushed beyond physical pain. 

It was enough that the gods would take his soul from him. It is too much now that they would take his home from him as well.

Hasn’t he lost enough?

When will it be enough for them to let him rest?

Weren’t the gods supposed to protect them?

“You lied,” he whispers to nothing and everything. “You lied to me.”

There is no answer. There is no glow of golden light in his peripheral vision. No Messenger comes to his side, and no avatar of his gods. Because Pryna is dead, and Ardyn killed her, and the gods have never answered his prayers when he has needed them the most. 

He’s not sure why he expected it to be any different this time.

Ardyn tuts quietly. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks, holding Ignis by the chin. His touch makes Ignis ache, but there’s not enough light in him to lash out at the poison of his grasp. Ignis bears the touch, staring listlessly up to meet his gaze. “Do you even recognize yourself anymore?”

_ No. _

“Of course I do.”

Ardyn tilts Ignis’s head this way and that, studying something Ignis doesn’t quite understand. He finally makes a soft sound, frowning, and lets go of Ignis with a flourish. “A pity. The lie’s as hollow as you are.”

“What are you talking about?” Ignis growls, shrinking back as far as he can. If he didn’t know himself, he’d say he was cornered. Animalistic.

“The fate of a healer, of course. The price of the gods.” He pauses, then says, with the finality of a judge, “Death.”

_ Death. _

“It is of no surprise to me,” Ignis rasps. “I know my fate.” It is his duty.

“You hunger for it. For life. For another chance. You’ve lost so much along the way. Is it worth it?”

“Always.” For Noct, anything is worth it.

“What of your Trident, little one? Will you keep it from your king?”

“I keep nothing from Noct.” Except the truth. Except a weapon. Except the full power of gods and kings.

But he’s giving his life, and that’s enough.

“Then how about I give you something of your own?” Ardyn raises a hand before Ignis, and purple fire flares from it. “Something you can keep for yourself.”

This is familiar. Ignis has known this sight since Galdin Quay.

This is power.

“Go on,” Ardyn whispers in his ear. “Go on.”

Ignis reaches out. 

If he could just fill a little bit of the void in his chest, then he’d have enough power to fight Ardyn. Maybe he could hold him off. Maybe he could get the ship to crash and take the chancellor down with him. 

Anything to buy Noct more time. A thousand lives would be worth his.

Against his will, his vision flashes with the image of an older Noctis, brought low by the attacks of his ancestors.

Ignis grits his teeth against the memory. He needs to focus on the moment; on now, and on how Ardyn Izunia needs to die. All Ignis needs is  _ power- _

Before him, the plague-dark smoke beckons.

Gods, he’s so hungry for it.

If he could just reach out-

Shaking, Ignis holds out his hand to the distant darkness. It writhes and twists before the remnants of his golden light, but there’s so little of him left that it hardly matters. 

He’s so close-

_ Noct- _

“No!” he cries, and he wrenches his hand back.

The darkness snarls and recoils, and chilly agony blooms in the back of Ignis’s mind. Ignis lets himself collapse, holding himself up on his hands and knees and gasping for air. 

He sobs.

Gods, it hurts. Everything hurts.

“None for you?” Ardyn asks, and his voice comes to Ignis like a prayer, like a curse, like a lullabye. “You were so close.”

“I can’t!”

“I must confess I’m impressed.” Ardyn trails a finger along Ignis’s cheekbone, sending the frigid poisonous touch of the Starscourge spiraling across his skin. “It takes significant self control to resist the call.”

“An Oracle would never submit to you,” Ignis snarls around his panicked tears.

“How many of your ancestors have joined me in the dark?”

Ignis shakes his head. “You could never. The Oracles are holy-”

“Are they? Is the bloodline so sacred that it resists all? The light is not nearly as strong as you think it is. How many Oracles have there been, Ignis? And how many kings?”

“One hundred thirteen kings,” Ignis murmurs. “And the Oracles-”

How many?

He’s not-

He’s not even sure.

Ardyn hums in mock sympathy. “Don’t take your lapse in memory to heart. It’s easy to forget an Oracle, after all. They’re far more disposable than kings.”

_ Disposable.  _ It was fine when it was him thinking of himself, and of his usefulness to the cause, but when Ardyn says it, skating over the importance of Ignis’s bloodline, it aches.

“So many faded away all on their own before I could get to them. Sealing dungeons, healing illnesses...they gave themselves to your ancestors, and they paid for peace with their lives.”

“You’re wrong,” Ignis rasps. “You’re wrong.”

But Ardyn continues. “Some of them succumbed to the hunger after some convincing. The desperation goes to their heads after a time. It’s hard to resist the call when you’re starving.” Ardyn smiles. “And so they followed me.” He sighs, “Nothing gives me more pleasure than extinguishing the light the gods gave to your kind.”

“Sounds like a grudge.”

The poisonous light in Ardyn’s eyes flares brighter, and the chancellor grins. 

What does he know?

“I always hated your kind,” Ardyn muses, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “You just obeyed. You never questioned the Six. You let yourselves waste away for the sake of those kings and queens. Do you realize the sheer power you could have mustered if only you’d kept those covenants?”

Ignis makes a quiet noise of disgust. “You’re wrong. The covenants destroy you from the inside. You can’t possibly hold them all at once.” Two at once is bad enough; he’s sure he only survives it because of how long his soul has known the fragment of Shiva’s power. 

“You can.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Oh! If only.” Ardyn leans in close, and his tone grows conspiratorial. If Ignis didn’t recognize the insincerity, he’d almost be convinced that Ardyn was trying to befriend him. “I know them, you know.”

“Know what?”

Ardyn’s lips twist into a wry grin. “Songs to wake the gods. Lullabies, aren’t they?”

“They were, until you killed our mother.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You burned my home!” Ignis hisses. “You burned everything I loved!” He clenches his fists and realizes he’s conjured his daggers, sending fire along the length of the steel blades. He keeps them out, letting the weapons match his rage. “Twice over!”

That pleases Ardyn, in some twisted way. Somehow, Ardyn always finds a way to win. He caresses Ignis’s cheek and asks, “Have I burned the heart out of you as well, Ignis Nox Fleuret?”

Ignis turns and bites Ardyn’s hand as hard as he can.

The chancellor’s blood tastes like poison on his tongue, and he gags around it before the hand is ripped from between his teeth. He revels in the victory, though, baring his teeth up at Ardyn’s face, and he hopes they’re stained black with the scourge of the stars.

Let him see that Ignis is unafraid.

Ardyn must see, because his lip curls, and he backhand slaps Ignis.

The touch sends him reeling again, shattered by the darkness that lashes out from the chancellor’s touch. He collapses, barely bracing himself on an elbow on the cold steel floor. “What are you?” he demands, tasting his own blood in his mouth once more. It mixes with the scourge-tainted tar in a way that tastes almost sweet; almost tempting.

“Hadn’t you guessed?” Ardyn shakes his head. “I thought you were more clever than that.”

Ignis spits, “Enough with the games.”

“I was the first to be used and discarded, little Oracle. I was the first, and you are the last. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll buy yourself some time and join me.”

“Don’t call me that.” Titan had called him little. It had been comforting in his voice, spoken to him in the language of the divine. From Ardyn’s lips, it sounds too familiar, digging under his skin.

“I’ll call you what I want.” There’s a bite in his words, like a wire stretched just too tight, on the edge of snapping. “They certainly called me what they wanted.  _ Accursed,”  _ he hisses, and even the sound of it sends the black oil of the daemonic plague trickling down Ignis’s spine.

“Stop that,” he orders weakly. “Stop doing that.”

“Ah.” Ardyn’s brief anger disappears, and he turns from Ignis. “Sleep for now, dear one. You’ve gotten so worked up.”

“I won’t,” Ignis mutters.

“You will,” Ardyn replies, and he’s back before Ignis in a heartbeat, holding a hand to his forehead, forcing Ignis to bear his touch.

The agony is almost a relief this time. At least it distracts him from the pain in his heart.

Ignis lets sleep take him, falling into the abyss beyond the waking world.

The dreams aren't the best. Ignis was never good at walking between the worlds.

But the Ring in his pocket resonates with the same frequency as the magic of the armiger, and Ignis follows its echoes into the darkness of sleep, chasing the blueness he’s always known. Chasing clarity. Chasing Noct.

He opens his eyes, but not with his body. He’s back in the blue place, in the dreams where he’d once seen sylleblossoms and Gentiana and the horrible visions of what’s to come. But now the blueness takes the shape of a place achingly familiar and now lost to him forever: Fenestala Manor. His childhood bedroom.

Slowly, carefully, he dares to look down at himself.

This time, he is himself as he is now, twenty two and fragile. No longer does he wear the guise of his younger self, trapped in the memories of sylleblossom fields now turned to ash. He’s himself: the ascended Oracle. But he wears Lucian black. It might be an effect of the Ring, but the touch of midnight fabric on his skin feels like home for once.

Ignis takes one step forward, and then another. He reaches out and runs his fingers along the top of one of the armchairs. It’s different from this angle; when last he’d stood here, he’d been a child of ten, unaware of what would soon come to pass. But it’s the same as he remembers it, or at least he thinks so. As he looks around, he can see where the covenants have punched holes in his memories: the picture frames on the walls are blank, and there’s a dark void in lieu of a pattern on the rug. His bookshelf is half empty, filled only with the memories that are left to him.

The sight pains him.

And all this, even, is long gone. Surely the empire ransacked what they could when they took the manor twelve years ago. What remained of his possessions were probably hoarded as spoils of war. And now those, too, are surely in Gralea or turned to ash, consumed by the fires of Ardyn Izunia’s wrath and amusement.

He clenches his fists.

How much more will they take from him?

“Ignis.”

He turns.

“Lunafreya,” he breathes.

She stands before the windows that overlook the green valleys of Tenebrae, clad in white and blue and silver. Her eyes are the bright, clear blue of a sky untouched by Starscourge, as much of an antithesis to the plague as Ignis has ever seen. It’s hard to look at her and see anything other than an Oracle; she plays the part well.

And here she stands.

Alive.

“You’re safe,” Ignis murmurs, and his voice hitches around the words. “I had hoped-”

There is urgency in her eyes, and iron glints beneath the clear blue. “You have the Ring,” she says, walking towards him. Wherever she steps, she leaves footprints of starlight. “I knew I could trust you.”

“I should have left it with Noctis,” Ignis says. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”

Luna’s steps halt. “And yet you did it. Why did you?”

Before he can consider his words, Ignis replies, “So he can’t use it.”

The disobedience feels right.

“Ignis.” Lunafreya tilts her head to the side, frowning. “Ignis, what do you know?”

“The prophecy, Luna. It was all a lie.”

Luna’s eyes are sad. “You knew he would die, Ignis.”

“But now I’ve seen it, Lunafreya. I can’t unsee it. I can’t let this come to pass.” Ignis steps forward, clutching at his empty heart. “Why would the gods show me this if they did not want me to change its path?”

“Perhaps they felt it would lend you clarity, to help him along his path.”

“But-”

But it wasn’t the gods at all.

It’s so clear now.

“Pryna,” he murmurs. “It was Pryna. With her dying breaths, she was the one who showed me-” He stops, chest heaving with the force of his excitement. “Luna, I think Pryna disobeyed.”

The ground shakes.

Luna shakes her head. “Ignis, I fear that you have said too much.”

“Tell me you’re alive,” he begs. He doesn’t know how much time they have left. “Luna, please.”

“I’m alive,” she promises. “We’re coming for you. Ardyn took you away from us. Noct-”

“He’s safe?” Ignis breathes. “Everyone is safe?”

Lunafreya says, “He’s fine; we have him with us. We’re chasing Ardyn’s ship with Aranea.”

_ Ardyn.  _ The name alone sends fear spiraling down his spine. He remembers the burning scent of his city, set ablaze by daemonic wrath. He needs to warn her about him. “Luna, you don’t know what he’s done. He’s burned everything-”

“I know.” Her eyes are so sad. “The smoke is carrying for miles.”

Ignis bows his head. The smoke. How much of his home has gone up in smoke because of his mistake? How many people are breathing the ashes of his kingdom? “Luna, I’m so sorry. If I’d know what he’d do, I wouldn’t have-”

“Just hold on a little longer,” Lunafreya begs. “Ignis, we’re coming to help you; just hold on a little bit longer-”

The world shakes again, more insistently this time. 

The dream is collapsing.

Distantly, he smells smoke.

“Go,” Luna orders, and daemons start smashing the windows of Fenestala Manor, sending glass shards flying. “Ignis, you don’t have much time. Go!”

Ignis stumbles and turns, sprinting towards the only door not crawling with the damned. He grabs the handle and hardly has time to register how cold it is before he’s already turned it and thrown the door open. He dives through, hearing Luna call a challenge behind him. 

He lands in a snow drift.

The world goes silent.

No.

Not silent.

Just...quiet.

It’s the sort of quiet he never got in the heart of Insomnia. He’s not known this quiet since his last winter in Tenebrae, when he’d run out of his room late at night as the snow began to fall. This is the silence of a world that has fallen asleep, muffled by the frozen tears of the gods above. There has never been anything that has quite been able to match its power. Nothing in Lucis has ever stunned him into silence like the shroud of sleep that the Glacian throws over the world.

Ignis struggles to his feet, blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes, and he realizes where his dream has taken him.

Ghorovas Rift.

He takes one step, and then another. His feet sink into the deep, deep snow. It feels so real.

Ignis turns around.

The doorway to Fenestala Manor is gone.

He turns back, and the statuesque hand of the Glacian extends towards him, massive and looming before him. Another few steps, and the brutal winds reveal Shiva’s face to him. Another step, and he can see her open eyes, still and cold and lifeless.

Another casualty of Niflheim’s scourge.

**_The Oracle approaches._ **

Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating down to the shards of ice that have grown between his bones. “You,” he breathes, sending his breath swirling through the air. “You live?”

**_Not in this form._ **

At the center of Ignis’s chest, the covenant of Shiva flares painfully to life. He gasps, nearly doubling over, but stands his ground, raising his eyes to meet her dead ones.

He’s not as relieved to see her as he thought he’d be.

Instead-

He’s angry.

**_Come, child._ **

He stays where he is. “Gentiana-”

**_You know my name._ **

The implicit order is clear enough. Ignis dips his head, cowed still by the might of his goddess, and says, “Shiva.”

**_Your heart sought me out. What do you seek?_ **

“What did I see at Leviathan’s altar?” he demands.

**_That which you have always known. You are the Oracle; you know the prophecy._ **

Her voice doesn’t have the same cadence as Gentiana’s had; it rumbles with the raw power of the Astrals, sending shudders through Ignis’s body right down to his bones. Though his divine blood resonates in harmony with the language of his goddess, Ignis still winces at the power of it. He’s only human, and pitifully so.

He replies, “I do not accept it. I cannot.”

**_You must._ **

“I cannot lead Noctis to slaughter!” he cries.

**_You carry my covenant in your heart._ **

“Does that imply loyalty?”

Though the Glacian’s dead face does not change, her next words are laced with the threat of a winter storm.  **_It should._ **

Ignis looks her in her cold, empty eyes, and he tells her, “You lost my loyalty when you ordered the death of my king.”

**_Remember your place._ **

He turns away.

**_Ignis Nox Fleuret._ **

There are no words he can say that will pacify her. There is nothing he can do to come back from this, and that truth does not terrify him like it used to. Icy shards whip across his face, cutting him and leaving his blood frozen in their wake. 

He walks away from her, ignoring the howling wind all around him. The cold cannot hurt him.

**_Do not turn your back on me-_ **

He wrenches his eyes open against the frigid ice holding them closed, and he is on the floor of the airship once more.

Ignis gasps at the warmth around him, so unlike the all-encompassing darkness of Ghorovas Rift. He turns his head to the side, staring out at the night beyond the airship, and sees soaring spires and lit windows. It is a city, and not one he knows.

Then this must be Gralea, the heart of sin and the Starscourge.

For once, his golden light does not urge him to  _ heal- _

_ Avenge,  _ it whispers.

That feels right.

_ Avenge. _

If the gods will do nothing, then he will take matters into his own hands.

Ignis forces himself to stand and holds out a hand. It grasps for a weapon, searching for the armiger tucked away in the center of his soul, and blue light answers. One of his daggers bursts into his hand with a shower of stardust, filling the ship with the sound of crystals shattering. As if it knows what he wants, the blade lights up with fire, red and hungry. The warmth of it burns away the chill of Shiva’s wrath.

Distantly, he feels three blue lights flare to life through the infinite expanse of the armory. Prompto, Gladio, Noctis-

_ Noct- _

They feel him.

Then they know he is doing what he must.

Ardyn Izunia is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe he is still dreaming.

His steps are slow but sure. They carry him to the cockpit of the airship; he lets his burning blade skitter across the steel walls, kicking up sparks and melting through the metal with the force of his rage.

Ignis can’t believe he ever used to fear the easy reality of killing. He buries his knife in the neck of the pilot, only distantly registering that blood bursts across his fingers instead of magitek miasma, and shoves the still-twitching body to the side. The knife stays lodged in his victim’s neck, and flames lick across the armor and the red and white insignia of Niflheim. 

_ Avenge. _

This feels as natural as breathing. He had watched Prompto pilot a ship like this, years ago. Or was it just weeks, or days, or-

He cannot remember.

“Little Oracle,” a voice purrs from behind him, and Ignis’s skin crawls with the agony of the Starscourge. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He’s here.

_ Avenge. _

Ignis wrenches the controls to the side, forcing the airship off course, and it lists sharply down, speeding towards the massive ship in the sky. The Keep. The center of the empire. The home of the Scourge.

He does not pray for protection. The gods care not for his life.

“Noct!” he calls instead, because if he dies now, at least Noct’s name will be the last word on his lips.

_ Noct- _

Zegnautus Keep looms, and behind him, Ardyn Izunia laughs.

They crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, it's been a while. This story, while I love it, has been very hard to write, and college is extremely difficult this semester. Updates in the future will probably be shorter and infrequent, but I would like to try to finish this eventually. I do have a trajectory for it, though, and I hope to deliver the end of Ignis's story in time. Thanks for sticking around if you're still here! :)


End file.
